


A Tale of Two Bards (and also a Witcher)

by ForestWren



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, I couldn't help myself, Jaskier makes a new friend, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Language Barrier, M/M, Noldolante, Presumed Dead, Song: Elsa's Song (The Amazing Devil), Song: Fair (The Amazing Devil), The Amazing Devil Lyrics, The Author Regrets Nothing, but i seriously doubt that Maglor will show up in season 2 of the Witcher, his name is Maglor and he's an immortal war criminal, only briefly though, technically it takes place after both canons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28881732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestWren/pseuds/ForestWren
Summary: Maglor has been wandering the shoreline for literal millennia. He hadn't heard another voice in almost as long. He is, understandably, quite disoriented when a loud human interrupts his perfectly peaceful brooding.After the disaster of the Dragon Hunt, Jaskier goes to the coast on his own. Things don't really go as planned, but who cares? Peace is overrated anyway.In which there are language barriers, found family, guilt crises, several long-overdue realizations, and, eventually, a very confused Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Maglor | Makalaurë, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 179
Kudos: 252





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to my first multi-chapter work on Ao3!
> 
> I’d like to thank two amazing authors for making this possible: luteoflorien, whose fic [Never A Monster He Couldn't Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281177/chapters/43264826) was largely responsible for inspiring this story’s premise, and SunflowerSupreme, whose fic [The Minstrel and the Bard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979660) gave me the courage to actually write it down. Both stories are absolutely wonderful; I highly recommend giving them a read!
> 
> Also, thanks to my family for listening to me ramble and providing advice/editing help. You guys are the best!
> 
> This whole story is already written — I just have some final polishing/edits to do on each chapter before I post. I’ll be posting on Wednesdays and Sundays until we get to the end. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Jaskier was going to the coast.

He’d always wanted to go. He’d tried over and over again, but every time he’d meet someone along the way, or have conflicting obligations, or get distracted, or get deterred by some idiot Witcher wanting to go do Witchery things and never once listening to the bard, never seeing what he thought of anything, never even _calling him a friend—_

Right. The coast. Yes.

He’d been traveling for more than a month. Without a horse, it wasn’t surprising that it had taken so long, but Jaskier didn’t mind. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be. The only person he had to please was himself, and the only schedule he had to work with was his own. It was kind of nice.

Now, though, he was finally getting close. He could smell the salt in the wind, and he heard a whispering that he thought might have been the waves. He had spent the night in a small village just inland, wanting to wait until morning to set out for the coast. It was a good night. Most of the people had never been more than a few leagues away from the village, but they’d had plenty of stories to trade about wandering singers luring maidens to their deaths in exchange for Jaskier’s songs. He might be able to spin a ballad out of it if he felt the desire. Now it was morning, and he had a whole day ahead of him. He planned to make the most of it. 

He crested the hill he’d been climbing, and suddenly there it was. The water stretched out to the horizon, flat and unbroken except for the distant waves from the gentle breeze. The tough grass at his feet rustled as he came to a stop, staring in wonder at the huge unbroken expanse of _ocean._ It was beautiful, so vast that it was hard to comprehend. Jaskier grinned wildly. Too bad Geralt wasn't here to see this.

He shook his head at the thought. No. This was for him. He was here, Geralt wasn't, and you know what? Screw Geralt. He didn't need Geralt in order to have a good time, and he didn't need Geralt in order to live a perfectly fulfilled and happy life. He was fine. He was wonderful. If Geralt didn't appreciate that, that was his problem.

Jaskier ruthlessly shoved down the lingering ache in his chest and set off along the coast. 

He had come out at the top of a steep cliff, dropping down hundreds of feet before it reached the crashing waves below. It was beautiful here, but he had a feeling it would be even better once he got down to the water. He set off along the edge of the cliff in the hopes of finding a convenient stairway or something. 

He spent the better part of the day wandering along the shoreline, drinking in the sight of the ocean and the sound of the waves. Seabirds cried above, hardy flowers rustled at his feet, and the waves constantly rumbled and thundered in the background. As the sun passed its height and began to fall, he eventually did find a way down to the shore, which led to a narrow beach stretching along the feet of the cliffs. The sand was smooth and unbroken except for the tracks he left behind. It felt wonderful, as though he were all alone in a new world that was his to explore. The water stretched out forever into the distance, and he wandered, watching it for many hours. It was perfect and beautiful and everything he had imagined.

The wind began to pick up as the sun began to sink lower in the skies, and Jaskier laughed at the feeling of it in his hair. He pulled out his lute and strummed a few chords, starting to pick out a melody and grinning as the wind seemed to become stronger for the specific purpose of accompanying him. A few brave seafaring ducks rode the waves and he waved at them, dancing along the shore to get a closer look. He started singing an old ballad about some brave explorer and only grinned harder when one of the ducks gave him what he thought was an irritated look. _Screw you, duck. I can do what I want._

He kept singing, wandering along the shoreline and ignoring the increasing strength of the wind. He wasn’t about to be deterred by something as trifling as a little storm, even if the waves were getting bigger and bigger. He finished the adventure ballad and moved on to another song, then another, then another. 

And if the storm made him miss his wolf a little more, if he played _Her Sweet Kiss_ more often than strictly necessary now that nobody was around to be bothered by his maudlin warbling, it didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t missing his —no, _the_ Witcher, as Geralt had apparently never been his in the first place— any more than one would usually miss a friend. He wasn’t heartbroken. He had absolutely never seen Geralt as anything more than a means to an end, and definitely hadn’t made Geralt the focal point of his life or his best friend. He was fine. 

The sky grew increasingly grey and the ocean turned a little steely. Jaskier rather liked it. Too many people on the road here had only been happy to listen to him when he stayed cheerful, but the ocean didn’t mind. It sounded almost as though the wind was singing along, harmonizing with his songs no matter how sad they became. The voice of the wind twined with his into a beautiful, haunting melody, and Jaskier let a little bit of his grief come to the surface in the song. It was beautiful, here, with the waves roaring in accompaniment and splashing his doublet with spray. 

Wait. He was leaning against the cliff, staring into the cloudy sky as he sang. The water was many yards away down the beach.

Why was his doublet wet?

His song came to an abrupt halt as he got to his feet and looked around at his surroundings. The wind had picked up significantly, lashing the water into waves that crashed against the nearby rocks. They made it seem almost like the water had moved closer to him, approaching him like a giant surge of water, like a— 

Tide.

Oceans had tides.

Fuck.

He looked around, trying desperately to convince himself that he wasn’t in as much trouble as he feared. He couldn’t be so stupid that he would get himself killed after only a few months without Geralt. That was too much, even for Destiny. It couldn’t be.

The waves, crashing furiously against the rocky walls on either side of his inlet, told a different story. 

This was bad. 

He drew in a shaky breath, backing up until he was pressed against the cliff face behind him. The wind was somehow still growing stronger, bringing with it clouds that were now better classified as fog. The waves were getting stronger, the sky was getting darker, and as far as he knew the tide was still getting higher. 

This was very bad.

He laughed hysterically. So much for his dream trip to the coast. Two decades spent following a monster hunter to the darkest corners of the continent and past the most terrifying beasts of legend, and he was going to die because he forgot about _tides?_ He couldn’t have been more pathetic if he’d tried. Evidently Destiny had finally tired of the irritating bard and decided to get rid of him, because he couldn’t see a way out of this. He was thoroughly cut off from any possible escape route up the cliff. It was only a matter of time before he was swept off into the ocean to be smashed into smudgy bard mush against the jagged rocks. Or drowned. Or died of hypothermia. It didn’t matter. Nobody would know what had happened to him. Nobody would know to tell his parents. Nobody would know to tell Geralt.

He laughed again, and the water in his eyes was not just from the stinging ocean spray.

_I guess life finally decided to grant Geralt a blessing._

Maglor thought he might have finally gone mad.

He was hearing singing from the bottom of the cliff. At first, he hadn’t given it much thought — it was probably just the wind in the rocks. He’d even harmonized with it, thinking that it was a shame to waste a singing partner even if it was just the wind. 

But it didn’t stop like he’d expected it to. It would pause occasionally, but it would start again moments later with a different-sounding melody. And then it seemed to grow louder, like the source of it was drawing slowly nearer. And then Maglor started to hear what sounded very much like _individual words._ He couldn’t make out what was actually being said, but the voice sounded very human, and it sounded like it was singing in a real language. 

So he’d thought maybe there was a human singer nearby; perhaps they were new to the area and who wanted to explore or something. He might have to hide or run for a few days if his singing along with them had caught their attention, but it wasn’t anything he hadn't done before. Still, he rather liked this place and didn’t want to leave unless he had to. As the sky darkened and the wind whipped his hair in his face, he had set off to search for the source of the voice.

And that was when he realized that the singing was coming from the bottom of the cliff, which made no sense.

What human in their right mind would be singing at the bottom of the cliff in this weather? How would a human even get down there, with the tide at its highest and the winds as strong as this? Barely any humans ever came here anyway — what were the chances that one would somehow end up singing in possibly the most idiotic place in miles?

But he still heard the song continuing, unperturbed by the increasingly stormy weather, and so Maglor came to the logical conclusion that he had finally gone mad. It was unfortunate, but not particularly surprising given the circumstances. His lifestyle for the last few millennia had not been particularly conducive to sanity.

With a sigh, he turned around and began to head back to where he’d been sitting for the last few… days? Weeks? It didn’t matter. He should sing, the Noldolantë worked particularly well in storms like this. He only hoped his newfound insanity wouldn’t get in the way of his ability to lament.

The imaginary human suddenly fell silent.

Maglor stopped, frowning. That was surprisingly abrupt. Perhaps, now that he had realized the singing didn’t exist, his mind had given up on the charade? 

The singing stayed silent. Maglor shook his head and kept walking. Insanity was not logical, after all. Perhaps it would come back later, he thought absently. That would be nice. He’d rather liked it.

Then he heard the scream.

He whipped around, already running back to the cliff before he had a chance to think. The voice took him hurtling through the millennia. There was fire. Blood. Death. The stormy sea-wind whipped in his hair as he slew another innocent in Alqualondë, numbed his hands as his brother burned in the pyre they’d set alight, stung his face as he ran towards the screaming woman with the Silmaril, ran too slowly and arrived too late to stop her from falling into the sea with it and destroying his last and only hope. That was long ages ago, it was over and done with, but he could still hear them screaming, and oh, he really had gone mad, hadn’t he?

He reached the cliffside. There, dragged along helplessly in the roaring waves, was something bright yellow.

Yellow? There had never been yellow before.

Was this real?

Maglor ran along the cliff, trying to get a clearer view through the rushing fog. A human might not have been able to see, but Maglor could tell it was a person. A person dressed in bright yellow, and clinging to some sort of case with all their strength.

Even his imagination wouldn't have dreamed up something this strange.

This might be real. And if this was real, there was a person down there who would die soon without help.

He was not just going to stand by while somebody died. Not again. Never again.

Without a second thought, he sprinted for the nearest route down the cliff. 

Adrenaline cleared his mind and gave him a rush of battle-energy that he hadn't felt in millennia. The moment he was near enough, he threw himself into the water. The cold shocked his body and he gasped, immediately grateful that he had when a wave crashed over his head. He struggled to the surface, gasped again, and looked around. He caught sight of the scrap of yellow and swam towards it, struggling against the water which seemed to want nothing more than to hurl him against the rocks.

Fortunately, Maglor had become quite good at swimming over the past few thousand years spent by the coast. If he’d tried something like this back in the First Age, he might not have made it out alive.

It felt like hours but was probably only minutes before he managed to reach the increasingly soggy yellow object. It was indeed a human — a man dressed in clothes that were somehow still brightly colored. He wasn’t even trying to swim; he let the waves toss him around like a rag doll while he devoted all his strength to holding on to the strangely-shaped case Maglor had seen from the clifftop. Maglor didn’t know whether he was unconscious or had simply given it up for a lost cause, but either way, it would be difficult to get him back to the shore.

Maglor didn’t remember much after that. His body took over and he let it, the constant roar and tug of the waves providing too much input for his exhausted mind to handle. Somehow, miraculously, he must have got them to safety, because the next thing he remembered was desperately hauling the terrifyingly still human up the path away from the water. He collapsed at the top, breathing heavily and hearing blood roaring in his ears. He blinked the spots out of his vision and reached out a shaking hand to check the man’s pulse, hoping against hope that it wasn’t too late.

There, faint and fluttering but present, was the beat of a heart.

The human was alive. It was up to Maglor Fëanorian, kidnapper, coward, and kinslayer, to keep him that way.

Oh sweet Eru, what was he going to do now?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier wakes up in an unfamiliar place, and introductions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the response to the last chapter! I'm so glad I'm not the only one who wanted this crossover. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I think it's as good as it's going to get -- I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Magicat for beta-ing!

Jaskier woke with a groan. His entire body ached. His nose and throat were raw, and his chest hurt every time he breathed in. He almost felt worse than after the incident with the djinn, and that was saying a lot. What in the world had happened?

Oh yes. He’d been dragged out to sea by a freezing house-sized wave of impending death. That explained the pain.

In that case, the real question was how the heck was he still alive?

Opening his eyes would probably be an excellent way to figure that out, he realized absently. He was missing some key information that he’d really rather know. Like where he was. And what had happened. And whether or not he was facing impending death. And, for that matter, whether he was already dead and this was some sort of afterlife. But he really, really didn’t feel like opening his eyes. 

Wait. Where was his lute?

His eyes flew open and he sat up. He stifled a shout when the motion caused far too many different injuries to flare up with pain, but ignored it and looked around frantically. He couldn’t lose his lute too. Not after everything. It wasn’t  _ fair. _

He was inside what appeared to be a ramshackle lean-to against a rock. The air was damp and cold, but a good-sized fire was crackling a few feet from him. He was lying on something which had, at some point, probably been a blanket, with what felt like leaves underneath. It provided surprisingly good protection from the cold, stone-and-sand ground, but Jaskier would probably have been freezing without the fire. 

He was dressed only in a pair of breeches that were most certainly not his own, and his chest was covered with strips of cloth that looked like they were serving as bandages. Some inspection revealed his own sadly tattered and dirtied clothing hanging near the fire. Well, at least whoever had saved him had been thoughtful enough to dress him. This way he could pretend he had some semblance of dignity left. 

Dignity, however, was of secondary importance at this moment. The greater priority was finding out whether or not his life had just been shattered by the loss of his one and only faithful companion.

When his eyes finally alighted on the familiar outline of his lute-case, he could have wept in relief. He immediately rushed over to its place near-ish to the fire (a decision which his body loudly berated him for, not that he cared) and ran his hands over the case to check for damage. It was scratched and slightly dented, but miraculously still in one piece. He could feel the comforting weight of the instrument inside. 

He longed to take his lute out and make sure she was all right, but he didn’t want to risk showing her to whoever had rescued him, on the off-chance that they hadn’t already looked in the case. She was a very valuable instrument, and he was not going to allow any chance of her being stolen. He still didn’t know where he was or why he’d been rescued; it was quite possible he’d simply come out of the frying pan and into the fire. 

Although, now that he thought about it, his chances might not be that bad. Somebody wouldn’t go to all the trouble of fishing him out of the ocean and healing him if they were going to murder him afterwards, would they? They probably wouldn’t leave his clothes and lute lying around where he could reach them if they planned to rob or torture him, either. None of his other possessions were anywhere to be seen, but they’d probably been lost in the ocean and not stolen. Perhaps luck was on his side, for once.

Possibly he had just jinxed it and something terrible was about to happen to him, but hey, a bard could hope. Besides, he could always charm whoever it was with his good looks and silver tongue! It would be very difficult for this situation to be worse than drowning alone and unremembered in the cold ocean, so that was good.

Yes, Jaskier decided, nodding emphatically to himself. This was fine.

Maglor sat staring out over the misty ocean, listening to the crashing of the waves and trying not to panic.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d first seen the human; everything since then had been a constant flurry of activity. It was so different from anything he’d done recently that it left him internally scrambling to keep up with everything. When he’d finally done everything he could think of to increase the human’s chances of survival, he’d left his newly-patched-up shelter and sat down here, and finally let everything sink in.

There was a human. Here. In his tent. A living, breathing human whose life depended on his actions.

This was a disaster.

He tried to calm himself. The human didn’t have to stay. Maglor wouldn’t have to be responsible for him for any longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as the man was better, he could be on his way and Maglor could stop interfering in his life. All he had to do was try his best not to hurt him too badly before they could part ways. 

Why did he feel saddened by that thought? It made no sense. He shouldn’t feel like this person was an escape from loneliness. The man wasn’t even awake. His leaving would do nothing but make Maglor  _ less _ stressed, because he wouldn’t have to be responsible for the welfare of another. Maglor didn’t deserve companionship, anyway. He was a monster. His presence could only hurt people. He could only hope that the man would be able to escape his presence relatively unscathed. 

But what if it was too late? What if Maglor had already hurt him without realizing it? He wasn’t a particularly good healer. All of his knowledge came from things he’d picked up out of necessity on the battlefield. He didn’t know how to deal with this kind of situation; he was just guessing based on related experiences, all of which had taken place several thousand years ago. What if he was just making things worse? 

He bit down his anxiety and took a deep breath. He couldn’t change anything now. He was in this, for better or for worse, and he simply had to do the best he could from here. The human was unusually strong — that much was evident simply from the fact that he’d survived this long. He could survive a few minutes alone in an empty tent.

As though summoned by his thoughts, there was a rustling noise from inside the shelter.

The little singer was awake. 

Maglor could hear him moving around, even several yards away from the lean-to. He supposed the human could be excused for his lack of stealth, given that he would still be severely injured from his unplanned swim. He took a deep breath, readying himself, and stepped into the shelter.

The human turned sharply, his face equal parts fearful, wary and curious. He’d moved to where Maglor had placed his strange case and was cradling it protectively against his chest despite his obvious pain. This man’s face was like a book, his every emotion almost painfully obvious. Maglor hadn’t looked in the case, considering it to be an invasion of the man’s privacy, but he was glad he had saved it if it meant so much to the man.

“Hu wayu?” the human asked.

Maglor blinked. What?”

He immediately felt like kicking himself. Of  _ course _ the human wouldn’t speak the same language as him. It had been centuries if not millennia since he had spoken with anyone. Even the language of the Eldar would have changed over that time, let alone that of mortals! 

This was going to be a problem.

The human added confusion to the mix of emotions on his face. “Wat?”

Maglor frowned worriedly. This poor man was probably confused and afraid, not to mention in pain, and Maglor couldn’t explain what had happened if he couldn’t communicate. The man was in no state to go anywhere, but how could Maglor keep him here if he didn’t understand that he was safe? 

The human interrupted Maglor’s spiralling thoughts by speaking again, a blur of syllables flying out of his mouth too fast for Maglor’s speech-starved ears to catch. He held up a hand, trying to stop the flow of sound so he could think. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are saying, but I promise I mean you no harm.” He highly doubted the human would understand Sindarin, but maybe he would realize that Maglor didn’t speak his language.

The human frowned. “Wat?” he said again.

Perhaps the word was a request for clarification. Maglor instinctually filed the information away for later. 

“I don’t understand you,” he said again. After a moment’s thought, he pointed to the human’s mouth, then to his own head, and shook his head.

The human frowned and spoke again, sounding… incredulous? Frustrated? Confused? Maglor wasn’t sure. 

Maglor shrugged helplessly. “I don’t understand,” he said again.

The human muttered something under his breath. From the tone, he guessed it was a curse. Maglor couldn’t agree more.

There was a moment of silence. The human spoke again, in what sounded like a different language. He spoke slower and more clearly, tilting his head at Maglor when he was done as though asking if he understood. Maglor shook his head with another helpless shrug. If anything, that language had sounded more unfamiliar than the other.

The human muttered something to himself again, rubbing a hand over his face. Maglor winced. He hoped the man didn’t feel too terrible, injured and more or less helpless as he was.

Speaking of which, the human shouldn’t be moving around like this yet. Maglor waved to get his attention, then pointed emphatically between him and the makeshift bed Maglor had made him. This man needed rest if he was going to recover.

The human sighed but moved slowly back to the bed. His movements were ginger and slow; it was obvious his injuries were paining him. Maglor stood nearby, watching carefully in case his assistance was needed, but the human made it to the bed and lay down. 

The human pointed to the bandages around his chest and then at Maglor, tilting his head as though curious. Maglor nodded, hoping that the human was only asking if Maglor was the one to heal him. The human nodded back as though satisfied, then gestured around him at the fire, tools, and the rest of the tent, and pointed at Maglor with his head tilted. Maglor nodded again. The tent was his.

The human nodded again and lay down in the bed. His case was tucked carefully under one arm and he was watching Maglor attentively, but he didn't seem particularly afraid. That was good. Strange, but good.

Just as Maglor was turning around to tend the fire, thinking to let the human rest (Maglor could check his bandages later), a sound from the human got his attention. He turned to look at the man, head tilted in curiosity.

The human gestured at himself. "Jaskier," he said slowly. "Mai naim iz Jaskier." Then he gestured at Maglor, head tilted. 

Maglor blinked. Was that his name? He pointed at the man and repeated the word, trying to see if he had got it right. "Jaskier?"

The man nodded, smiling excitedly. "Ies! Jaskier! Ai am Jaskier." He gestured at Maglor again. "Wat iz ior naim?"

Maglor blinked again. Was this human asking for his name? He looked back at the man, where he was still waiting, head tilted.

"Maglor," he finally said. It was the name he most used in his head, anyway. It would do.

"Maglor," the man — _ Jaskier—  _ repeated. "Maglor."

Maglor nodded, and the man's face split into a grin. 

"Gud tu mit iu, Maglor," the man said. If Maglor hadn't known better he would have said he sounded pleased. The man smiled again, before laying down and closing his eyes.

And, despite himself, Maglor couldn't help smiling back. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the first steps towards communication are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bunch of fun playing with the language barrier in this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it too!

Jaskier was extremely confused, and he kind of really loved it. His curiosity was buzzing, his mind working at top speed like he was composing a ballad or doing a puzzle or trying to figure out what the latest combination of grunts and glares from Geralt meant. He’d had his life saved by a mysterious stranger who was obviously not human and who didn’t speak any of the languages Jaskier knew or had ever heard of. A stranger who, despite saving his life, seemed extremely cautious — simultaneously guilty for every slight discomfort he caused Jaskier, and absolutely terrified of him. Jaskier had no idea who this was or what was going on, but any fear he might have felt was hopelessly lost beneath curiosity. After all, he’d met a Witcher in a tavern and immediately decided to spend the next two decades following him like a puppy. This was pretty much normal for him. 

Also, this was the first thing in months that had successfully taken his mind off Geralt. That was a definite bonus.

It had been two days, give or take, since he had first awakened in Maglor’s shelter. Currently, it was the cold hour just after dawn and Jaskier was watching from his makeshift bed as Maglor bustled around building up the fire with an armful of wood. Jaskier wondered idly how long Maglor had been awake; he must have traveled a fair way to get that much wood.

The last two days had been filled with a lot of resting on Jaskier’s part and a lot of maintenance on Maglor’s. The poor man was constantly working to keep their shelter safe from the elements, the food and fire stocked up, and Jaskier in reasonable health. Jaskier should probably have felt guilty about the amount of work he was forcing on him, but he was tired and in pain and it was really, really nice to have somebody take care of him for once. He could make it up to Maglor later.

All things told, interacting with him wasn’t all that different from being with Geralt. The thought made Jaskier fight back a smirk. What communication they managed was through tone, gesture, and facial expression, and the years Jaskier had spent decoding the Witcher’s emotions turned out to be surprisingly helpful. Jaskier spoke constantly, of course, despite knowing that the other couldn’t understand him. It was calming, and Maglor always appeared to be paying close attention to his words.

Maglor must have noticed he was awake, because the bustling stopped and Jaskier could feel the other’s gaze on him. He reluctantly opened his eyes and smiled at the other.

Maglor blinked, then returned his smile awkwardly. He looked like he was unused to the gesture. Jaskier fought back a snort; it really was almost like finding another Geralt. It probably said a lot about Geralt that his level of communication was comparable with a mysterious ocean spirit who didn’t even speak Jaskier’s language.

But Geralt wasn’t here, and Jaskier was not about to let him ruin his budding friendship (Jaskier had decided to call it a friendship) without even showing up. Maglor was not Geralt, and Jaskier needed to stop thinking that way before he got himself in trouble.

Maglor interrupted his musings with a little wave, which had become their signal for when one of them wanted to get the other’s attention. Jaskier looked up and nodded. Maglor, after making sure Jaskier was looking, gestured carefully at the fire.

"Wat?" said Maglor.

Jaskier blinked, tilting his head for clarification. What did that mean?

Maglor gestured at the fire again, then pointed to himself. 

_ “Ruinë,” _ he said, slowly and clearly.

He pointed at the fire again, then at Jaskier. "Wat?"

Jaskier blinked, thinking. Then his face split into a grin.

"What? Is that what you're saying? You want to know what my name for it is? Are we going to try and figure out each others' languages? Oh yes, this is going to be so much fun."

Maglor looked bewildered by the sudden stream of words. Oops. That was probably not the clearest way to answer.

He pointed to himself and then at the fire. "Fire," he said, slowly and clearly. "That is a fire."

"Fayuh?" Maglor repeated, tilting his head.

Jaskier nodded with a grin. "Fire!" 

They repeated the word back and forth a few times until Maglor's pronunciation was near-perfect. For someone who didn't speak a word of this language, he was picking it up remarkably fast.

Then Maglor pointed at something on Jaskier's clothes, across the tent from him. Jaskier squinted at it, trying to see in the dim light. Maglor moved it closer. It was a red ribbon that Jaskier had sewn into his doublet. 

"Fire?" he asked.

Hmm. This might take a while. 

"No," said Jaskier, shaking his head. "That is red, but it is not a fire."

Maglor nodded, seeming pleased. Then he pointed at some water that had just been boiled over the fire. 

"No," said Jaskier, "That's water. It is warm, but it is not a fire."

Maglor nodded. He looked like he was going to find another object to ask about, but Jaskier held up a hand. He mimed striking a spark, saying "Fire" as he did so.

Maglor looked at him carefully as he mimed the action. He went for a moment, rustling around in a bag until he found what he was looking for. He brought a flint set over to Jaskier and held it out. "Fire?" he asked.

Jaskier frowned, thinking. Then he shook his head. "Those are not fire," he said. He took the flint and struck a small spark, careful not to let it catch on his blanket -- he wasn't a  _ complete _ idiot -- and said "Fire. That is fire."

Maglor nodded, seeming almost delighted. "Fire."

Jaskier nodded back with a grin. Then he thought for a moment. 

“Ruiney?” he asked, trying to imitate what Maglor had said before.

Maglor blinked, then nodded hesitantly.  _ “Ruinë.” _

_ “Ruinë,” _ Jaskier repeated, and Maglor smiled.

Jaskier grinned up at him. Perhaps he could find answers to his questions sooner than he'd thought. 

"Now," he said, looking around for another suitable object, "This is a blanket. Blanket."

That evening they stayed up much later than usual.

Maglor was a wordsmith. That was the most basic sense of his identity, the thread that had stayed consistent through disaster after disaster. He was a musician and a wordsmith no matter what else he ended up being. 

So of course, being presented with a puzzle that brought all his mind back to focus on language, something that made him  _ think _ for the first time in thousands of years, was going to be intriguing. Of course he was going to want to solve it more desperately than he had wanted anything for a long time.

It would only last until Jaskier was healed, of course. This was just to make the process a little easier. Once he was better, they would go their separate ways and Maglor could return to his lonely penance. He just needed to be able to communicate in the meantime. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d been in this sort of situation. Things had been similar when he and the other Fëanorians had first met the Sindar, after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath and all the disasters that surrounded it. Neither group had understood the other, but for both their sakes they needed to. Maglor had been grateful for the chance to take his mind off everything and focus on something he loved. 

So he did know how to do this. He just hadn’t remembered it being quite so  _ hard. _ At least with the Sindar, their languages had a common ancestor, meaning there were many shared words and grammatical principles. They’d also had far more people to help them, which cut down on the monotony of figuring out vocabulary. Now it was just two of them, with absolutely no idea what similarities their languages might have. They were starting completely from scratch.

They'd settled into a rhythm together. Every morning, Maglor would wake up before Jaskier and head out to look for food and other supplies they would need for the day. He'd do some singing while he was out, as he needed to continue lamenting —it was his penance and his purpose, or it had been— but he didn't want to disturb the human. When he returned, Jaskier would be awake, usually talking to himself as though extremely bored with his forced inactivity. He'd brighten immensely at Maglor's return and would usually speak at him incessantly while Maglor went through the motions of preparing them a meal. Maglor couldn't understand much, of course, but he listened carefully anyway in case he could pick up something useful. Every now and then, Jaskier would throw in little bits of Quenya 

They would spend the next several hours before dinner speaking to each other. The first few days had been excruciatingly slow, taking turns naming objects while the other clarified until they were reasonably certain what the word meant. Things had sped up considerably once Maglor had figured out the words for noun, adjective, verb, and the other parts of speech, but it was still a slow process and there were only so many objects one could find nearby. Maglor wasn't sure what they were going to do when they ran out of simple and immediately accessible nouns, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

If they came to it. Jaskier might very well have recovered by that point.

Maglor refused to let himself hope that Jaskier might stay. It was silly, not to mention selfish. The human surely had friends and family who he was anxious to return to, and even if he didn't Maglor could not be an enjoyable person to spend time with. He didn't deserve the companionship, anyway. He was a monster. 

Jaskier would leave the moment he was better, but it couldn’t do too much harm if he enjoyed his companionship in the meantime, could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell, _ruinë_ is my best guess at the Quenya word for 'fire'. I'm no expert, though, so feel free to correct me if you know better! 😅


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which common interests are discovered and songs are sung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Magicat for the help beta-ing this chapter!

One night, almost a week after his accidental swimming trip, Jaskier woke up with a groan. He’d had a hard time sleeping ever since the mountain. It was very irritating; normally, he was a very deep sleeper. He tried not to think about why that had changed. Things had been better since he'd met Maglor —being severely injured was conveniently exhausting to the body— and he'd hoped he would get a break from it for a while. Apparently, he had no such luck.

He sighed. It could take him hours to fall back asleep, at this point. He might as well accept it. He sat up slowly, looking around. Maglor was nowhere to be seen. Jaskier sighed again. It would have been nice to have company. It made him feel less alone, even if the other person was asleep. At least this way there was no danger of Jaskier waking Maglor, he supposed. He wondered absently where he could have got to, in the middle of the night as it was, but he didn't trust his strength or sense of direction enough to venture outside so soon after an injury. No matter what Geralt said, he wasn't a  _ complete _ idiot. Most of the time.

He was just about to roll over and try vainly to fall back asleep when he heard it. 

It was music. Unmistakable, hauntingly beautiful music. Someone nearby was singing and it was quite possibly the most incredible thing he had ever heard in his life.

He had to get closer.

Of course, he knew it was dangerous. The singer might be a siren or something, and even if it wasn’t he really shouldn’t be moving right now. But screw it, he was a bard, and he was not about to turn down a chance to improve his craft so much no matter how bad an idea it might be. That was kind of his thing at this point. 

He got to his feet, ignoring the protests of his various injuries, and sallied forth to seek the song.

Hmm, that was a good line. He should use that sometime.

He peered around him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. He shivered. It was surprisingly cold out here, without the warmth of the fire and the blanket. He hoped Maglor was okay, wherever he was. He stood there for several minutes, listening with awe and blinking as he tried to see in the starlight. He was just glad it wasn't as cloudy as it had been the first night, or he would have been completely in the dark about where to go.

Hah! That was a good line too. In the dark, literally!

He shook his head. He could practically hear Geralt growling at him for the pun, but Geralt wasn't here and Jaskier could do whatever he wanted. His only companion couldn't even understand him.

The singing changed pitch, growing angrier, and Jaskier's head snapped towards it. Right. Back to business.

He strode bravely through the darkness, absolutely not stumbling on any invisible rocks nor belatedly realizing that he had no idea where he was. The singer was surprisingly far away — whoever they were, their voice carried  _ wonderfully—  _ but eventually, he found them. They stood on the clifftop, silhouetted against the stars, looking out over the ocean and _singing._ His breath caught in his throat at the sound. Even he, a bard, had no words for such beauty.

Evidently, the singer heard him. He whirled around and Jaskier couldn't hold back a gasp.

It was Maglor.

Jaskier gasped again. 

Maglor stared at him. Jaskier stared back. 

He'd been living with possibly the best singer to ever exist for six whole days and he  _ hadn't even known about it? _ Sad, sweet, cautious Maglor? What was the world coming to? He'd wasted six days of possibly the best opportunity in his career!

Maglor's face went through a series of strong emotions, before settling on concern. He gestured emphatically back towards where Jaskier had come from. "Tent!" he said, pointing. 

Jaskier, still somewhat in shock, allowed himself to be dragged back towards the shelter. Maglor was probably right, anyway. His injuries were not exactly happy about the sudden movement and cold, and it was probably for the best that he had Maglor to lean on now. He cheerfully ignored those facts, focusing on his discovery. Maglor, the person who reminded him so strongly of  _ Geralt _ of all people, was a singer to rival the greatest bards of history! And he, Jaskier, happened to have the good fortune to be actually living with him! They didn't speak the same language, of course, and Jaskier wasn't even sure what the other man was since he most certainly wasn't human, but still! This was brilliant! Perhaps Destiny wasn't such a bastard after all.

He needed his lute.

His pace doubled and Maglor made a startled sound as he raced towards the tent.

Maglor had no idea what to do.

He'd been lamenting on the clifftop, struck by a sudden overpowering wave of guilt and fear as he watched Jaskier sleeping so calmly and peacefully and trustingly in his tent. He hadn't been able to work himself up to the Noldolantë, though he had no idea why, so he'd been just starting a shorter piece about the Nirnaeth Arnoediad when he'd heard it.

He'd turned, and Jaskier had followed him to the cliff where he was singing, in the middle of the night when the human was most definitely supposed to be  _ sleeping _ and  _ actually recovering from his injuries _ instead of risking his neck in the dark and the cold. Maglor was beginning to believe that the man had no sense of self-preservation at all. His face was a mask of what almost looked like awe, swiftly transitioning to shock as he recognized Maglor, and for a moment Maglor froze. Was this it? Was this when Jaskier finally realized what a monster he'd taken up with and left? The thought scared Maglor more than he wanted to acknowledge.

He'd channeled his anxiety into concern for the human's wellbeing and began forcefully ushering him back to the tent and Jaskier had allowed it, but now Jaskier was practically running and _what was going on?_

Was he running from Maglor? Was he so disgusted that he wanted to get his things and leave immediately? Would he even survive if he did that, injured as he still was? Why was he out here in the first place? Why was he even awake? Was something wrong at the tent?

Maglor hurried after Jaskier. What else could he do?

The human rushed into the tent. Maglor noted with concern that he was limping a little. He reached to catch the human by the arm but stopped at the last moment. His touch might not be welcome right now.

Jaskier didn't seem to notice his motion. He made a beeline to his strangely-shaped case, taking it up as though it were the most precious thing in the world. He looked up at Maglor with a grin stretched across his face. 

He carefully opened the case and pulled out a wooden object. Maglor frowned at it. Was this what Jaskier had been so anxious to protect in the ocean? He couldn't even tell what it was.

Then Jaskier did something with his hands over the strings, and Maglor couldn't hold back a gasp.

It was a musical instrument.

Millenia. It had been millennia since he'd seen an instrument. His own harp had broken long before the continents had changed, and he hadn't thought it worth the effort to find a new one. He couldn't exactly make one himself, and he wasn't about to subject innocent people to his company even to get another instrument.

His fingers ached with missing it for a moment, and he had to forcibly stop tears from welling up in his eyes. 

Jaskier had a musical instrument, and Maglor hadn't even recognized it. That more than anything else brought home just how long it had been.

Jaskier was still looking at him with a smile. It was a little terrifying to have someone look at Maglor with such unmistakable delight.

Maglor abruptly realized that he had moved closer, his hands hovering over the wood but not touching. He couldn't quite bring himself to believe this was real. Jaskier gently pushed the instrument into his shaking hands, and he gently ran a hand over the strings before handing it back as much as it pained him to do so. It wasn't his, and he didn't even know how to play it.

Jaskier took it back, handling it with the same care that Maglor had always given to his own harp. That's when it clicked. The man didn’t just like singing. He was a musician, just like Maglor.

The revelation was almost enough to bring him to tears again. It had been so long,  _ so long _ since he'd had somebody with whom he could share his music.

He needed to hear the man play. 

He gestured shakily between Jaskier and the instrument, tilting his head in their marker for a question. "You?" he asked, unable to find a better word.

Jaskier nodded, grinning. "Yes."

He adjusted his grip on the instrument, took a deep breath, and then he began to play.

It was different from Maglor's harp and yet not. Jaskier's fingers danced across the strings with practiced ease, one hand doing some sort of plucking or strumming while the other held down the strings further up the instrument. Maglor watched in fascination as the tune came together in a completely different way to how he was used to. The music itself was different, sounding more rounded and patterned. Maglor's mind was running a mile a minute cataloguing all the new information and he almost forgot where he was.

And then Jaskier began to sing. 

It was a relatively simple tune, but it sounded angry and sad and loving all at the same time. Maglor had no idea what it was about, but Jaskier seemed very emphatic about it. His voice broke artfully on one line. It wasn't the most elaborate of songs, but it carried its emotion fairly well and had a catchy tune. 

It was music. Music sung by another person, from another culture, from essentially a completely different world. It meant that Maglor was no longer alone. It was terrifying and delightful and melancholy all at once. Maglor had no idea what to do with all the emotions swirling stormily around his head. He focused on the music and lost himself in it.

Jaskier finished the song with a flourish. He paused, apparently taking a moment to clear his head from the emotion of the performance —and wasn't  _ that _ a familiar experience, Maglor's heart ached at the sight— and then looked at Maglor for a reaction. Maglor swallowed and nodded, trying for a smile. He just hoped the human wouldn't mistake his emotion for something negative.

Jaskier looked a bit concerned but smiled back nevertheless. He seemed to think for a moment, then gestured between himself and his instrument.

"Bard," he said, plucking a short tune. "Bard."

Maglor repeated the word, rolling the sounds around in his mouth. Was that a word for a musician?

Jaskier gestured at himself again. "Jaskier, bard. I am a bard." He plucked a few notes on the instrument as though to illustrate his point. Then he gestured at Maglor, head tilted in a question. "Maglor, bard? Are you a bard?"

Yes, it seemed to be Jaskier's word for a musician. It seemed to be the most likely option, anyway. Maglor nodded. 

“Yes. I am a bard.” 

Jaskier grinned, nodding as if he'd expected it. He looked like he was going to speak again, but Maglor beat him to it. 

"What is that?" he said, pointing at Jaskier's instrument. He was intensely curious about the unfamiliar instrument.

Jaskier grinned again. "Lute," he said, running his hand lovingly over the instrument. "This is a lute. My lute."

Maglor nodded, repeating the word to himself. He gestured at the object -- at the lute, head tilted. 

"You lute?" He huffed in frustration. “Please you make lute? _ Lindalë?” _ He really needed a larger vocabulary in this language, being forced to use such terrible grammar was almost physically painful. Fëanor would have been horrified.

He blinked for a moment, distracted. How long had it been since he'd thought of his father with anything but grief or anger? This human was affecting him more than he'd realized.

Jaskier frowned, probably trying to parse Maglor's mangled sentence. "You want me to make you a lute?" 

Maglor grimaced. He wasn't sure what that sentence meant. He gestured at the lute again, trying to mime the strumming motion Jaskier had made and humming a tune. 

Jaskier's expression cleared. "You want another song! I can do that, my friend."

He picked up the lute again and began to play. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lindalë_ is Quenya for music.
> 
> The song Jaskier sings is to Maglor _Her Sweet Kiss,_ in case you were wondering. I spent way too long watching videos of people playing lutes when editing this chapter. It didn't help much, but it was fun! 😂


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier decides to start composing again and Maglor has a startling revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're officially a third of the way through! Thank you so much to everyone who's commented/kudos-ed so far; I wasn't sure how many people other than me would be interested in this and it's been amazing to know that you like it. I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3

Jaskier was teaching a language to someone with whom he could barely communicate, while simultaneously trying to learn a language that he’d never seen or heard of before. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he was having a wonderful time.

Maglor was picking up the common speech in leaps and bounds. Jaskier was progressing rather slower in Quenya, as he’d learned it was called, but he was definitely making progress. It helped that now they knew enough words and grammar to sometimes explain one word using others. Things were also much easier now that they had music; the extra motivation to understand each other combined with the new mode of conveying information sped things up considerably. It was especially useful for more abstract concepts like emotions. They'd also taken to drawing with charcoal on a flat stone or piece of wood, but it was imprecise. Jaskier regretted immensely that he had lost his notebook and pens in the ocean, but they managed. He had spent the last few weeks communicating through an amalgam of words in both languages, gestures, and singing or playing a tune on his lute. 

Maglor seemed incredibly quick at picking up on grammar rules, so that before long he was starting to speak in complete sentences. Jaskier wasn’t there yet —Maglor seemed much more willing to learn Jaskier’s language than to teach his own, for some reason, and Maglor was much better at this anyway— but he didn’t mind. In fact, he was enjoying himself so much that he almost completely forgot about his heartache for a while. He immensely looked forward to when he and Maglor would be able to discuss music together. Maglor hadn't sung since that night on the cliff (Jaskier wasn't sure why; Melitele knew he'd tried to encourage him) but he was sure he would, if given enough time. 

He was recovering steadily, too. He could walk around now without help, and he'd taken to following Maglor on some of his shorter expeditions to gather firewood or forage for food. Maglor was always very careful not to let him overexert himself, but Jaskier didn’t mind; it was worth it for the chance to move around.

All the excitement and learning going on was an excellent distraction from thinking about Geralt. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help but remember.

Geralt had been his closest friend — _the love of his life,_ a treacherous corner of his mind whispered— and losing him hurt, damn it! No matter how hard he tried to pretend it didn't, it hurt so much that sometimes he thought he was drowning in it. He'd followed him for _twenty-two years_ . Twenty-two years of shared laughter, shared pain, shared life, and Geralt just threw it away as though it had been _nothing._ Twenty-two years, practically his entire adult life, thrown away like so much trash. Like their entire friendship was a lie. Like he was no better than a burr to be removed from a sock when it grew too irritating.

And no matter how much it hurt, Jaskier couldn't even bring himself to hate the man. That might be the thing he hated most of all.

But most days, Maglor proved an effective distraction. 

Jaskier had been watching Maglor closely. He knew by now that there was nothing untrustworthy about him, of course, but that was no reason not to be curious. Jaskier wasn’t a complete fool; he had realized almost immediately that Maglor was very much not human. The fact didn’t bother him so much as intrigue him immensely, because Maglor also was not a Witcher and Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what he _was._ An elf seemed most likely, but if he was he was a strange one. Jaskier had never heard of an elf who just wandered on the shore on his own — although to be fair, he hadn’t really heard of _anyone_ doing that outside of legend. Jaskier had managed to find his very own legend, not once but twice! How many other bards could say the same? 

It seemed a bit like the universe telling him to stop moping over Geralt already and get his act together, and Jaskier was determined to comply. 

Maglor was having fun.

The fact occurred to him seemingly at random one day, as he was mentally reviewing vocabulary he’d recently learned while Jaskier plucked out a tune on his lute in the background. Shock had frozen him in place. Waves of guilt, terror, and a series of other strong emotions had immediately followed. He wasn’t allowed to have fun. It was a crime against everyone he’d ever wronged. How long had he been having fun? How had he allowed something so terrible to happen? He should be ashamed of himself.

He didn’t know what his face had looked like, but it must have been intense because Jaskier had immediately dropped what he was doing and rushed over to him. Jaskier’s concern had snapped him out of it, and he had scolded the bard for risking worsening his injuries while simultaneously trying to reassure him that Maglor was fine. Jaskier hadn’t completely believed him, and had decided to distract Maglor from his thoughts for a few hours by absorbing him in grammar and music.

Maglor decided, later, that this was a necessary evil. He was helping Jaskier. The fact that he was having fun was merely a side effect. If he left now, it would harm Jaskier more than if he stayed. He would simply have to leave the moment he was no longer needed.

It was hard to tell when that moment would come. Jaskier’s recovery was progressing nicely, but he showed no signs of wanting to leave. Maglor could only assume that he didn’t want to bring it up yet or that he didn’t feel healthy enough to go wherever he would rather be. Maglor didn’t want to push Jaskier into doing anything he didn’t want to do, so he hadn’t brought it up. He wanted both of them to be more fluent in each others’ languages before starting any complicated conversations.

Learning a new language and teaching his own after so many years was a complicated endeavor. Fortunately, neither of them had much else to do with their time, and Jaskier seemed to be constantly trying to fend off unbearable boredom. Maglor thought things were going rather well, despite the difficulties.

Jaskier talked so much that it was frankly rather ridiculous, given that he knew Maglor couldn't understand him. Perhaps the human found it calming, or perhaps it was just his default state of being. Maglor felt like he should be irritated by it, but he wasn't. It had been so long since he'd heard another voice. It began to heal a part of him that he hadn't even known was broken to listen to Jaskier speak and sing. 

Additionally, as his vocabulary grew, it became increasingly useful to have so much data to listen to. He could work out grammar rules and sometimes new words from context, without having to bother Jaskier for a definition. Sometimes the bard would even stop and try to explain a concept to Maglor, and he didn't seem to mind on the occasions when Maglor would interrupt him with a question.

So yes, Maglor was having fun. Perhaps, just this once, it was excusable.

He continued speaking with Jaskier and desperately hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake. 

In an attempt to further his quest of getting over Geralt, Jaskier had decided to start composing again.

As he was currently living with perhaps the best singer he’d ever heard, it would be senseless not to waste the opportunity for some advice. He cornered Maglor one morning after breakfast.

“You’re a good musician. You’ve heard my singing. Any advice?” He made his best puppy eyes in Maglor’s direction and hoped his words could be understood.

Maglor looked surprised for a moment, but nodded. He paused for a long moment before speaking. His words were halting and slow, and Jaskier could tell that he was trying to work his thoughts into a form that he could express using his limited knowledge of the language. 

“Many of your songs are things that are not real, yes? You don’t need to use false things. There are many real things that are very good songs. You have emotions and stories of your life that make very good songs. Make a true story.”

Jaskier blinked. “Put some filling in the pie, you mean?” he asked with a wry laugh. He probably should have seen that coming.

Maglor shot him a bewildered look. Oops. 

“Never mind, it’s not important. What you said reminded me of a friend, is all. Thank you for the advice. I’ll definitely think about it.” 

Maglor still looked confused but nodded. He went back to what he had been doing, and Jaskier began fiddling with tunes on his lute.

Jaskier did indeed think about it, more than he’d expected to. He’d put Geralt’s comment all those years ago down to typical Geralt grumpiness, but hearing the same criticism from Maglor made him wonder if there was actually something to it. Maybe he could be more serious about the emotions in the songs. It couldn’t hurt to try. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do when Maglor was away looking for food or firewood.

Maglor was a fascinating person, really. He seemed so startled at every kindness Jaskier showed him. He had scars. Not scars like Geralt’s, where they had obviously been caused by claws or teeth or swords (although Maglor had his fair share of those as well). Jaskier had only seen his right hand a few times, as though Maglor were deliberately hiding it, but he couldn’t live with someone for as long as he had with Maglor without noticing the horrible burn. Jaskier wondered how it had happened, what could have caused it and all the other things that made Maglor so interestingly strange.

He thought of how he'd found Maglor wandering, alone and forgotten, along the shore. He thought of the thousands of people who had died, who were dying now, who would have no better fate.

His heart ached and his fingers itched for his notebook.

Two days later, he almost had a song.

He had a melody he liked. The lyrics were frankly some of the best he'd written. He simply couldn't figure out how to accompany it. Every lute melody he tried seemed to ruin the mood he was going for. It needed to be haunting, full of emotion, and the lute seemed just to distract from it. He huffed in frustration. He was almost there!

Maybe if he sang it through a few times, he'd get an idea. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. 

_I can hear the cannons calling_

_As though across a dream_

_And I can smell the smoke of hell_

_In every stitch and seam_

He ran through the whole song, letting the melancholy fill his voice as he sang. It had turned out to be mostly inspired by musings about Maglor, but if he'd channeled a bit of his grief and anger over losing Geralt into it nobody could blame him, could they? It certainly made it easier to give authentic emotion to his singing.

He got to the end and sighed. He still had no idea how to accompany it. Ah well, if it was worth doing once it was worth doing again, right? Singing it was a rather cathartic experience, anyway. He launched into another round, oblivious to his surroundings.

_And like flowers, the bodies tumble_

_Around this muddied lot_

_I cannot hear them scream_

_'Forget me not.'_

He paused and took a breath, preparing to go into the next verse. 

He almost fell over surprise when another voice joined in. 

Through a combination of extreme grace and good reactions, and absolutely not because of long practice avoiding things thrown at him while he performed, he didn’t fall. He even salvaged the song after only a short pause that almost sounded intentional. He was quite proud of that.

_Your voice, it carries over_

_The hubbub and the hum_

_And it paints the sky and circles high_

_Like the beating of a drum_

It was Maglor singing with him, he realized. He must have come upon him while Jaskier was absorbed in the song. His voice really was beautiful. He was contributing wonderfully, letting Jaskier carry the melody while he harmonized.

_You will scream 'I won't forget you'_

_But I'll cover my cold ears_

_It cannot be a lie_

_If no-one hears_

This was actually very good. On a whim, Jaskier began slowly thumping on the ground to the beat. He hadn't sung with another person since he was a student in Oxenfurt, but Maglor was like no partner he'd ever had.

They continued through the song. Some verses were really more about Jaskier's experiences than he'd meant them to be, while some were more faithful to his original inspiration in Maglor, but Maglor handled both equally well. Together, they slowly built the emotion until the song reached its climax.

_And you'll strew some sage and lillies_

_And roses where I rot_

_Of all the flowers you picked_

_I knew you would forget_

_Forget-me-nots._

They finished with a haunting intertwining of voices and faded into silence. 

For a long moment, Jaskier simply stared at Maglor, only whistling sea-breeze filling the silence. Whatever just happened had been absolutely incredible and Jaskier honestly had no idea how to process these emotions. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face.

"Thank you," he said, looking at Maglor in awe. "That was incredible! I've never done that before."

Maglor smiled at him, a little sad. “You’re welcome. It was a good song.”

Jaskier blushed a little, thrilled at the praise. "It wouldn't have been nearly as good if you hadn't joined in," he said honestly. Then he laughed incredulously. "Now that I think about it, I was just trying to figure out how to accompany it! This was perfect!" He beamed up at Maglor. "You're a wonder, really. Thank you."

Maglor blinked, looking confused. Jaskier snorted internally. Apparently, all broody people were alike; they had no idea how to handle honest praise. Jaskier resolved to compliment Maglor more often.

"You're welcome," Maglor said after a moment's hesitation. "I quite enjoyed it."

Jaskier smiled at him. At least this broody person had more manners than the last one, despite having spent the last who-knows-how-long brooding on a cliff. 

"Me too," he said.

Perhaps he could find a second muse, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier and Maglor sing is [Elsa's Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDN8yYWAZI4&ab_channel=TheAmazingDevil-Topic) by The Amazing Devil. All of their music is amazing; I highly suggest giving them a listen if you haven't already!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally meet Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter gets a bit angstier than we've seen so far. It'll all turn out all right, but I've put a more detailed description of what happens in the endnotes in case you'd prefer to be forewarned. Enjoy!

Geralt sighed. Another terrible inn, another terrible town, and another barkeep who had no idea where Jaskier might be. Geralt was beginning to lose hope that he would ever find the bard, but he couldn't give up now. He couldn't live with himself if those were the last words he ever said to Jaskier.

It had been months — _years,_ almost— since that day on the mountain. The only good thing about them had been Ciri. She was one of the most wonderful things to ever have happened to him, but even she couldn’t fill the aching hole in his heart where Jaskier had once been. Jaskier would be so much better with her than Geralt. Geralt could barely manage his _own_ emotions without his bard, let alone a small girl’s. She needed someone who could cheer her up, who could make her smile in that way only Jaskier could. 

Jaskier had always made things better, Geralt realized that now. Even when they weren't together, his songs kept Geralt from being persecuted and his memory kept him from being lonely. There had always been the certainty that somewhere, somehow, they would soon meet again, and no matter how hard he tried to deny it to himself, Geralt had always looked forward to that day.

Now, there was none of that certainty. Geralt may very well have ruined one of the only good things in his life with his stupidity. He'd certainly hurt the bard, and he wouldn't blame Jaskier if he never wanted to see Geralt again. He'd been a terrible person and an even worse friend, and Jaskier deserved better.

He also deserved an apology, but it was looking more and more unlikely that Geralt would be able to provide one.

With a sigh, he abandoned his line of questioning with the barkeep and asked after a contract. He and Ciri needed supplies, and for that they needed coin. That was the main reason Geralt had allowed himself into the village; he couldn’t appear in public without risking recognition, and the faint hope that somebody might have heard of the bard despite the fact that he’d apparently disappeared off the face of the continent was not worth that risk. 

He couldn’t deny that there was a corner of his mind that remembered Jaskier’s dream of going to the coast, that hoped perhaps Geralt might be able to find him here. But he had a child to take care for now. He couldn’t let that part of his mind lead his decisions, no matter how much he wanted to.

The barkeep, who had evidently been waiting for Geralt to ask about monsters, immediately started spouting about the sirens that had recently shown up on the shore. Apparently there were at least two of them and they lived on the cliffs, trying to lure hapless travelers to their demise with haunting songs. Nobody in the village had dared venture out that way in the month or two since they’d first been heard, and it was starting to negatively affect the fishing industry. Geralt nodded along through the whole speech and accepted the contract. He just needed to get the coin and get out; he couldn’t afford to haggle over details. 

He reluctantly bartered for a room for the next day or two and sent Ciri up to it with their luggage. It was too risky to leave her out in the open alone. Hopefully, the pay from the contract would make up for the cost; these people seemed reasonably decent. Besides, Ciri deserved the chance to sleep in a real bed.

He went outside to find a stable for Roach. It was afternoon now; he would set out on the hunt tomorrow. They could afford to wait a day.

"Excuse me? Mr Witcher, sir?"

Geralt glanced behind him. The girl —she couldn't be older than fifteen— squeaked, but stood her ground. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He probably seemed angry, but he didn't particularly care. He was not in the mood for curiosity. "Hmm?"

She swallowed, obviously screwing up her courage. "You said you were looking for a bard?"

Geralt turned around sharply. She squeaked again, obviously startled. 

"Have you seen him? When?" 

"Maybe a few months ago? Everyone says it can't have been the right bard, but you seemed so worried about him... I thought I should check."

"What did he look like?"

"He had brown hair, bright clothes, and a beautiful lute. He seemed melancholy, but he played all the songs I requested." She looked... sad? That couldn't be right. "I liked him."

That sounded like Jaskier, all right. Geralt’s attention focused entirely on the girl. She looked at her feet, biting her cheek. Her attitude was making Geralt nervous. Why should she be so melancholy about this? He tried to tell himself it was irrational; she was only sad that the bard hadn’t stayed. That was all.

"Where did he go?"

"Well," said the girl, looking increasingly uncertain. Geralt's anxiety grew with every second she hesitated. "We're not sure, exactly.”

“What do you mean?” 

“He left the night after he arrived, saying he wanted to take a look at the ocean. We were all pretty sure he was going to come back, but, well, he didn’t.”

“And?” Geralt demanded roughly. Bards left places all the time. He didn’t need to be terrified.

“That was around the time the sirens first showed up,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “My cousin thought he heard a scream by the cliffs. Nobody’s heard of the bard since.” She sniffed. “Mother says he’s dead.”

No.

Jaskier couldn’t be gone. It wasn’t possible. The bard had far too much life in him to be killed just like that.

But Geralt hadn’t found a sign of him in months. The trail had gone cold, and Jaskier was not a hard person to track. 

“No,” he growled. “He just left. He- he’s fine.”

The girl looked at him sadly. “He was going to perform at the tavern that night. And he promised me he’d say goodbye before he left. He didn’t.”

Geralt glared at her. “He probably got chased out.”

“No, I would have heard about it. And we’re the only village for miles. He left without supplies. He couldn’t have made it anywhere like that.”

No.

Geralt's world was crumbling. This was his fault. If he hadn't shoved the bard away, treated him like nothing more than trash without even trying to apologize until it was far too late, Jaskier wouldn't be— 

No. He couldn't say it. 

Maybe if he didn't say it, it would turn out not to be true. To be just another nightmare.

He took a deep, shaking breath and clenched his fists. He couldn't cry right now. Witchers didn't cry. Witchers didn't have feelings. He should be ashamed of himself.

 _Witchers don't let bards follow them around for two decades, either,_ whispered a traitorous voice in his head. He shoved it down ruthlessly.

"Where?"

"What?"

Geralt growled. "Where did he go? Where are the sirens?"

The girl pointed towards the smell of the ocean. "He left along that path."

Without another word, Geralt began readying himself for the hunt.

"Be careful," the girl whispered.

Geralt ignored her. 

He would make them pay. That was the only thing he was good for, anyway. If Jaskier was dead, Geralt would avenge him. He would kill them all, painful and slow, and they would wish they had never been _born_ before the end.

He took a deep, shaking breath, and let the rage fill him with strength.

Those sirens were going to rue the day they ever laid their miserable eyes on his bard.

All thoughts of waiting until the next day to hunt were gone. He was not wasting another moment. He left Ciri with Roach at the inn, with strict instructions to stay in the room until he returned. When he'd told her it might be a few days, she'd been worried, but he'd promised to return and left without an explanation. He didn't think he could hold himself together if he had to explain what had happened, and he did not want to break down in front of the girl who was becoming like his daughter. He left as soon as she'd promised to stay inside.

He laughed bitterly to himself. Here he was, finally going to the coast like Jaskier had wanted. Instead of accompanying the bard, he was here to avenge his death. The irony was not lost on him. 

Since when did he appreciate irony? 

Jaskier had brought so much into his life, made his days so much brighter, and Geralt had never appreciated him. Not until it was too late. He'd done so much, been so good, and all Geralt had ever done was insult him and then abandon him to die. 

He was absolutely not crying, though. Witchers didn't cry.

Geralt was prepared to spend days tracking the sirens, even to rent a boat if he had to. These creatures had to pay, and he would do whatever it took to make them. 

As it turned out, this was not necessary. He had barely been searching for twenty minutes when he heard the singing. Apparently, luring hapless bards to their deaths was not a particularly stealthy enterprise. Unfortunately for them.

He hadn't fought sirens before, but that didn't matter. He would do whatever it took to get revenge. Things looked promising so far; he already had a good idea where they were, and he wasn't feeling particularly affected by the magic in their voices. That didn't say anything about how easy they would be to kill, but he didn't care. 

He downed a potion and set off towards the singing.

As he got closer, he could hear better. They both sounded male, which was odd but didn't particularly matter. It wouldn't be the first time a piece of folk legend turned out to be grossly inaccurate. One of them sounded eerie, haunting and lonely. Geralt almost shivered at the sound. The other sounded different. More human. More like--

_How dare they._

Apparently the magic was affecting him more than he'd thought, because that siren sounded almost like _Jaskier._ It couldn't be, of course. Why would he be singing here of all places? And Geralt had never heard that song before, or heard Jaskier sing anything even remotely similar. It was obviously the siren stealing the voice of his latest prey, possibly with the intention of confusing whoever came upon them next. That would explain the male-sounding voices.

They killed his bard and then they dared to steal his voice?

They were going to die. No matter what it took, they would die and there was nothing they or Destiny could do about it. They would _pay_.

The singing faded to silence. That was odd. Perhaps they had heard Geralt coming and decided to make a run for it. He listened for a moment to confirm it. Yes, they were leaving.

Geralt was not letting them get away. He growled, drew his sword, and sprinted up the cliff. 

When all he saw upon cresting the slope and reaching the cliffside was what appeared to be a rock or abandoned bag, he nearly ran right past it.

Then the bag made a startled noise and sprang to its feet. Geralt whirled around to meet it and froze.

That was not a siren.

It certainly looked male, and it held none of the identifying features of sirens. No wings, no claws, no obscenely attractive features, nothing. It appeared to be just a weatherbeaten man with long, messy hair and tattered clothing. Its face paled at the sight of him.

"Tyelko?" it whispered, looking like it had seen a ghost.

"Who are you?" Geralt demanded roughly. What was going on?

The whatever-it-was blinked. It appeared to be confused.

"I am a traveller," it said eventually. It spoke haltingly, with an accent Geralt couldn't place. It looked at him as though checking for his reaction. He growled.

"Were you the one singing just now?" he asked. He didn't have time for this. 

The 'traveller' frowned as though concentrating. "Why do you want to know?" it said eventually. 

Geralt growled again and drew his other sword. No matter whether this thing was human or not, it was going to help him get his revenge or it would regret it.

The thing's eyes widened. It was just about to respond when it froze, almost like it was listening to something. Geralt frowned, listening as well. In a moment he heard it. Footsteps, running excitedly up the other side of the hill.

Geralt swung so he was facing both the whatever-it-was and the incoming threat. If this new creature was unhelpful, things might get ugly.

Then Geralt heard the voice, and his heart stopped beating for a moment.

"Maglor! I found some more firewood, come help! If we can get it back to the tent, we could be set for the next week. Oh, do you know that word yet? Week? It means a group of seven--"

The stream of words came to a sudden halt as a very familiar figure came to the top of the hill.

What.

Geralt's brain came screeching to a halt. There was a long moment of silence.

"Geralt?" the new man whispered. His voice was shaking a little. He clutched at the strap of the very familiar lute slung across his back, the way a certain bard often did when he was nervous.

Geralt stared at him. Then he stared some more.

It was Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description: Geralt travells to the village where Jaskier was staying before he left to explore the ocean. The people there have been hearing unexplained singing and saw Jaskier disappear without explanation, so they have concluded that he was eaten by the "sirens." Geralt hears this and is very distraught. He goes to get revenge on the "sirens"... and finds Maglor and Jaskier.
> 
> I'd apologize for the cliffhanger, but I'm not sorry :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a reunion, several conversations, and an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @arofili for [this post](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/615848838646874112) pointing out that Geralt and Celegorm look weirdly alike -- I couldn't get the idea out of my head, so I ran with it! 
> 
> Again, thanks to Magicat for the wonderful beta-read! You're the best.

Jaskier was alive.

Jaskier was standing _right there._

A torrent of relief and shock overwhelmed Geralt and his knees almost went weak at the force of it. _Months_ of searching, guilt, grief, and then thinking Jaskier was dead, and now the bard was standing right in front of him and staring at him with his mouth open in a typically Jaskier expression of shock. Geralt didn't know how long he stood there before he managed to speak.

"Jaskier," he whispered. His voice was so hoarse that he was barely understandable. He cleared his throat. “You’re here.”

Jaskier stared some more. Geralt didn't think he'd ever seen the bard so quiet. It was unnerving.

He looked like he was working himself up to speak again, but someone beat him to it.

"Jaskier? Who is this?" said the not-a-siren from before. Geralt almost jumped; he'd forgotten it was there. "Are you okay?" it added, seeming concerned for the bard.

Jaskier blinked. He looked back and forth between Geralt and the whatever-it-was for a moment and ran a hand over his face.

"I'm fine," he croaked. He grimaced and cleared his throat. "Um, Maglor, this is Geralt. He is- he was- hmm. He is trustworthy. He won't hurt us. I think." He glanced nervously at Geralt as though seeking confirmation.

Jaskier should not be nervous around Geralt.

"No," Geralt managed to say. "I won't. I'm sorry."

Jaskier looked, if anything, even more bewildered. "Okay," he said. "Um. Good to know."

There was awkward silence for a moment. Geralt's attention was fixed on Jaskier, trying to convince himself that this was real. Jaskier fidgeted under his stare.

"Um, sorry, I feel like I need to ask," said Jaskier eventually. "Why are you here? And what on earth are you doing?"

Geralt followed Jaskier's gaze to his swords, still gripped tightly in his hands. Oh. That was a problem. He flushed a little and belatedly sheathed the blades.

"I was looking for you," murmured Geralt. He couldn't pretend that he didn't care anymore, not after he'd messed up so spectacularly and realized so many things.

Jaskier's bewilderment did not lessen. "What? Why?"

"I... I need to apologize. To make up for everything," Geralt mumbled. He was trying, he really was, but this feelings stuff was _hard._ Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound, or something like that. "And I missed you," he grit out.

Jaskier stared at him. "Okay," he said haltingly after a moment. "Okay, um, this is not a conversation we should be having right here. I need a moment, anyway. Um. Maybe you can come down to the tent? If you want?"

He sounded so confused, so uncertain; it tore at Geralt's heart. He nodded, unable to find the words he needed.

"Is that all right with you, Maglor? Can Geralt come with us to the tent?" Jaskier gestured down the way he had come, as though illustrating his point.

The whatever-it-was --Maglor, apparently-- seemed rather bewildered. He stared at Geralt for a moment, but took a deep breath and nodded. He looked rather like he was going to faint. 

"Maglor?" Geralt asked, unable to resist asking any longer.

Jaskier blinked. "Oh! Uh, Geralt, this is Maglor. We met a few months ago; he's a friend of mine. I like him, so please don't murder him. Or me."

Geralt winced. "I won't."

"Okay." Jaskier sucked in a deep breath. "Follow me, I guess?" He gestured weakly at the path up which he'd come. After a beat, he started walking downhill. Geralt followed without hesitation. He heard footsteps behind him and gathered that Maglor was following at a polite distance.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Geralt was just beginning to wonder if this was one of those times he was expected to say something when Jaskier spoke.

"So are you sure you're not going to murder me? You looked very murderous a few moments ago."

The words felt like a punch to the gut. It hurt to see Jaskier so uncertain around him.

"I won't hurt you," he said, hoping his sincerity bled through to his voice. "Never again, Jaskier. I’m sorry."

Jaskier stared at him. "Right," he said faintly. "Are we sure you're the right Geralt? 

"The first time we met, you asked for my opinion on your music and then talked about the bread in your pants."

"Alright, just thought I'd check. Last time we spoke you seemed pretty sure you hated me."

Geralt winced. "I'm sorry. I don't hate you. I shouldn't have said that."

Jaskier was still looking at him suspiciously. "What's your favorite color?"

"Blue," Geralt said immediately. "Yours is yellow," he added before he could think better of it.

Jaskier stared at Geralt until he tripped over a rock and returned his attention to where he was going. 

Maglor was very confused.

He and Jaskier had been happily singing together, the way they had taken to doing over the past few months, before Jaskier had left to find firewood. Maglor had just been about to follow him when he'd been struck with a remarkably vivid hallucination of Tyelko, swords and all. Then he found out that it was not a hallucination and it was not Tyelko; it was a stranger who Jaskier apparently knew very well. Before he knew it the bard was inviting not-Tyelko to their makeshift tent-turned-house, and was Maglor the Kinslayer really _inviting a stranger over for dinner?_

So yes. Maglor was bewildered.

Perhaps he really had gone crazy that day on the cliffside, and everything that followed from it had been some sort of fevered hallucination. It would certainly make a lot more sense.

He didn’t trust his sanity enough to interfere with Jaskier’s social life, so he contented himself with trailing along behind him and the stranger and listening with half an ear to their conversation. It soon trailed off into awkward silence.

By the time they reached the shelter, it was almost dark. Maglor hesitantly offered to make dinner for Jaskier and not-Tyelko, but Jaskier had waved him off, claiming that he needed to sleep. Maglor didn’t question it. Again, his sanity was doubtful, so he didn’t want to interfere. He heard Jaskier say something about talking to this Geralt person tomorrow, and the three of them awkwardly went to sleep.

The next morning, Maglor woke up and looked around. Jaskier was still sleeping soundly by the fire, but not-Tyelko —Geralt, he reminded himself— was nowhere to be seen. He frowned. Hopefully, he wasn't up to any trouble.

He got up quietly, resolving to find him without disturbing Jaskier. The bard seemed to have had an eventful day yesterday, and was still healing from his wounds besides. Additionally, Maglor had his own private curiosity that he had a feeling would be easier resolved without Jaskier around.

Ignoring the corner of his brain that suspected all of yesterday had been a dream or hallucination, he slipped out the door of the tent and into the early morning light.

It didn't take him long to find Geralt. He was sitting silently on the cliffside, gazing out at the ocean as the sky began to lighten around them. He didn't look up at Maglor's approach.

Maglor sat down next to him. Geralt didn't respond. Maglor didn't push. If his shocked expression yesterday was anything to go by, he was having just as strange an experience as the rest of them.

They sat in silence for many minutes. Maglor took the opportunity to examine the man (or whatever he was) more closely. The resemblance to Tyelko was truly startling. This stranger shared his brother's muscles, assorted intimidating scars, and trademark messy white hair. Even their tastes in armor appeared to be similar, if the battered and overly dark-and-intimidating outfit the stranger was wearing was anything to go by. His throat clenched at the thought, long-suppressed memories coming to light at the reminders of times long gone.

There were subtle differences, though, that became increasingly apparent as the silence stretched on. For one thing, Tyelko would never have willingly stayed still and quiet for this long. He would have long since disappeared into the woods to hunt or do whatever it was he did in the woods. His quiet, brooding demeanour reminded Maglor more of Moryo or Curvo or even Nelyo, especially after Thangorodrim. The eyes were different, too; Tyelko's eyes had been almost silver, to match his hair, while Geralt had yellow eyes that frankly made Maglor extremely curious. 

Surprisingly, Geralt was the one to break the silence, his voice bringing Maglor out of his musings.

"Who are you?"

Maglor laughed. “It’s complicated,” he said with a small, self-deprecating smile. 

Geralt did not look satisfied. 

“I’m a traveller. A wanderer.” He thought for a moment, trying to come up with more words that might alleviate this stranger’s suspicion. “A bard.”

Geralt looked at him. “Of course you are,” he muttered. “Leave it to Jaskier to find the one bard in this wilderness. And simultaneously the strangest person.”

Maglor wasn’t sure if he had been meant to hear this, but he laughed anyway. “Yes, that is like him,” he agreed. 

Geralt looked at him, startled. Ah. Evidently, he wasn't meant to hear that. Oh well. 

"How do you know what sounds like Jaskier?" asked Geralt.

"He has lived with me for... three months? He's my friend." It felt strange to make that claim about anyone, let alone someone he'd known for so short a time, but there was only so much he could do in this language to clarify the situation.

Evidently, Geralt found it strange, too, because now he was staring at Maglor. He almost looked... ashamed? sad? confused? Maglor wasn't sure; it had been a long time since he'd had to read people.

"How do you know Jaskier?" asked Maglor. Whatever was going on between those two, there was a lot of emotion involved and Maglor was honestly very curious. It was an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time.

Geralt sighed. For a moment, his walls fell down and he just looked very, very tired. Maglor's heart went out to him.

“We were… companions. For a very long time. I messed it up. I miss him.” The last part was almost a whisper.

Maglor's heart softened at the admission. Maybe Geralt wasn't such a bad person, after all.

Almost immediately, Geralt seemed to realize what he'd just said and the walls came flying back up, all softness leaving his face in an instant as he looked at Maglor warily. 

“Don’t worry,” Maglor tried to reassure him. “I understand. I’ve done worse things, and I cannot do much with stories out here.”

Geralt did not look reassured, just confused and rather suspicious. Maglor didn't really blame him. Despite what Jaskier might think, Maglor was not actually a trustworthy person.

As though summoned by the thought, Jaskier's voice drifted through the still morning air. "Maglor? Where are you?" 

"Over here," Maglor called. He and Geralt listened as the sound of footsteps drew closer.

The footsteps faltered when Jaskier caught sight of them. "Oh! Geralt. You're here. Wow. I really wasn't imagining what happened yesterday? That's... really weird, actually. What are you doing here? Are you actually real? Maglor, is he real?"

"I'm real," said Geralt.

"He is real," said Maglor. 

Geralt stood and made as if to move toward Jaskier, but thought better of it and remained where he was. Maglor simply turned around, not bothering to stand up. 

"Oh. Okay. Good to know. That makes this much more confusing, actually. Why are you here?" Jaskier was gesticulating wildly, as Maglor was learning he did when feeling very strong emotions.

"To apologize,” said Geralt.

Jaskier blinked, then frowned in confusion. "Okay, that’s fair. But then why did you show up yesterday looking all murderous with swords drawn?"

Geralt winced. "...It's complicated," he said with a grimace. He looked like he desperately wanted to change the subject but was restraining himself. Maglor suppressed a smirk.

"I have time," said Jaskier.

"The villagers said there were sirens on the cliffs. Hired me to kill them."

Jaskier frowned. "I thought you said you were looking for me."

"They also said that they'd seen you a few months ago. That you went to the coast one day and never came back. That it was around the same time the sirens showed up." 

Jaskier's brow furrowed in thought. Maglor’s heart clenched; the expression reminded him of how Elros had looked when thinking hard. Oh, dear. He was in deep.

"They heard singing by the cliffs," said Jaskier.

"Yes," said Geralt.

"They concluded it was sirens."

"Yes."

"They also concluded that I had been eaten by the sirens."

"...Yes."

"So you went to kill the sirens."

"Yes."

"Oh." Jaskier seemed to think about that for a moment. "You thought I was dead?"

Geralt swallowed and nodded. Apparently, even monosyllabic responses were too much for him now.

"And the thought did not fill you with joy and relief, correct?"

Geralt looked like he'd been punched in the gut. He'd looked like that a lot the last few days, Maglor noted absently.

"No!" Geralt had to visibly collect himself before continuing. "I... I didn't know Witchers could cry before yesterday," he whispered, staring resolutely at his feet.

Jaskier's mouth fell open. Geralt didn't look up as the bard stared at him. Maglor thought he caught the glint of tears in Jaskier's eyes as the bard searched Geralt's face desperately.

Geralt continued, words spilling out like water out of a broken dam. 

“I’m so sorry. For everything. I've been a terrible friend and you deserve better and I'm very sorry for what I said on the mountain because I didn't mean any of it and none of it was true. You're a wonderful person, and a wonderful friend, and you were the best friend I’d ever had even though I never said it, and I've missed you so much the last few months and you deserve to know that I was wrong. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I wanted you to know. I'm so sorry." Geralt bowed his head in silence, awaiting judgement.

Jaskier stared at Geralt in open shock.

"Do you mean it?" The bard's voice was shaking a little.

"Yes."

"You really think I'm your friend?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier whispered, and then he was crossing the space between the two of them and pulling him into a hug.

Geralt looked almost comically confused for a moment, and Maglor was painfully reminded of Maedhros in that moment. This poor man, or whatever he was, deserved better than whatever life had thrown at him.

Then Geralt drew in a shaky breath and pulled the bard closer, hugging him as though afraid he would disappear.

“You’d better not do anything like that again,” whispered Jaskier. “I swear I won’t forgive you if you do it again.”

“I won’t,” said Geralt. Then he blinked. “Wait. You forgive me?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Mostly. I’m still mad at you, though.” The words sounded less serious than they would have if Jaskier hadn’t been clinging so tightly to Geralt.

A small smile crept onto Geralt’s face and he rested his head on the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier made a happy noise and pulled Geralt closer.

It was the most adorable thing Maglor had seen in... millennia, probably.

The moment was rudely interrupted by the thunder of hooves approaching. Geralt and Jaskier pulled apart and Maglor tensed, ready to run or fight if need be. A horse galloped into view, running as though pursued by wolves.

On its back was what appeared to be a little girl. 

Maglor sprang to his feet, but Geralt was faster. He ran to meet them as they got closer and took the horse by the reins.

"Ciri? What happened? What's wrong?" He lifted the girl down from the horse and stroked the horse's neck absently. The girl clung to him tightly, breathing heavily. Maglor moved towards them, concerned but unsure of his welcome.

"Ciri?" Jaskier gasped, looking back and forth between the girl and Geralt. "As in Princess Cirilla? That Ciri?"

Geralt nodded distractedly, still occupied by the child in his arms. "What's going on? Are you hurt?" he said to the girl.

The girl —Ciri— shook her head, finally beginning to catch her breath a little. "I'm fine."

Geralt frowned. "Then what's wrong?"

"I was looking out the window," she panted, "And I saw a group of men ride into town. They looked suspicious, so I eavesdropped when they talked to the innkeeper." She looked up at Geralt, fear in her eyes. "They were asking about us."

Geralt muttered something that sounded like a curse and pulled Ciri closer. "What did the innkeeper say?" he asked, voice carefully calm.

"I didn't hear. I climbed out the window and rode straight to you."

"Good job," said Geralt.

"What is it? What's happened?" asked Jaskier, hurrying closer. "I couldn't hear from over there. What's wrong?"

Geralt turned to Jaskier, eyes grim. "They found us. Nilfgaard is here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next few chapters will be less cliffhanger-heavy! I hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a journey is begun and a song is sung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aand we're officially halfway through the story! Thank you all so much for sticking with me so far -- I hope you enjoy the latest instalment! <3

Nilfgaard was here.

Of  _ course _ Nilfgaard was here. This was Princess Cirilla and Geralt of Rivia. Of course they would be pursued. Of course they would need to leave almost as soon as they arrived.

Jaskier wished they could have had just a little longer, though. It would have been nice to catch up with Geralt, discover what brought on this sudden change in his attitude. Introduce him to Maglor, maybe. Find out why he was suddenly communicating more feelings than he had in all the years Jaskier had known him. It probably had to do with the fact he'd thought Jaskier dead --and wasn't  _ that _ a strange thought-- but that couldn't be all. Jaskier had almost died before without causing such a result.

But no, that was wishful thinking. Just because Geralt had apologized didn't mean he could spend time with Jaskier, or even that he'd  _ want _ to spend time with Jaskier. It was probably better for them all if he just left now.

"You should go, then. If they tracked you this far, they won't have any trouble following your trail out here. Maybe I can create a diversion."

Geralt looked... disappointed, almost. Why was he disappointed? Shouldn't this be what he wants?

"Jaskier!" cried Ciri, apparently noticing him for the first time. "I missed you!"

"I missed you too, Princess!" said Jaskier, managing a grin. Geralt made his confused frowny face. Oh, right. He didn't know that Jaskier knew Ciri.

"I visited her a few times, when I wasn't with you. Played at a few parties," he explained to Geralt. 

"Oh." Geralt looked even more lost than before.

"We were looking for you!" said Ciri excitedly, oblivious to the tension. "Geralt missed you and he was very sad. We wanted you to come with us so it wouldn't be so broody and quiet all the time!"

What? "What?"

Geralt made his embarrassed frowny face. "You don't have to, of course. I understand if you don't want to. It was just wishful thinking."

Apparently Geralt's communication skills hadn't improved  _ that  _ much. "What was? I'm afraid I do need some context, I'm not all-knowing."

"You coming with us. I'm sorry, I know you probably don't want to--"

"Wait, hold on a second. You want me to come with you?" Jaskier couldn't quite believe his ears.

Geralt hesitated.

"Yes or no," said Jaskier.

"Yes," admitted Geralt.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

“Really?” he said very calmly, absolutely not squealing in happiness or looking like an idiot at all.

Geralt just nodded, apparently out of words for the moment and looking rather bewildered.

Jaskier launched himself at Geralt, ignored Ciri’s squeak as she dove out of the way, and enveloped him in a hug for the second time that day. He may have laughed. Or squealed. Or possibly cried a little. Geralt looked completely lost but hugged him back anyway.

After a moment Jaskier pulled back. “Sorry,” he said, “That was probably too much. I’ll get off you now.” He stepped away sheepishly.

Geralt grabbed his wrist before he was out of arm’s reach. “No, it’s fine,” he mumbled. “I missed it.”

Jaskier stared at him, and a slow grin spread across his face. “You missed my being a nuisance?” he said gleefully.

“Yes.”

The admission almost made Jaskier’s jaw drop, but he resisted due to his innate grace. He may have made a slightly strangled noise before his face resolved itself into a delighted grin. Was Geralt of Rivia really admitting to having emotions? Positive emotions? About  _ Jaskier? _ This was a wonderful day.

“So you’re coming with us?” said Ciri, delighted. 

Jaskier hesitated. He’d already had his heart broken once by Geralt. He was not eager to repeat the experience, no matter how desperately he’d missed him in the past months. But he had missed him terribly, and Geralt’s apology had seemed nothing but genuine. Perhaps he should give him a second chance. 

One look at the expression of excitement on Ciri’s face and cautious hope on Geralt’s was enough to make up his mind for good.

“If you’ll have me,” he said, glancing at Geralt, “I’d be delighted.”

The smile on Ciri’s face was matched by another, smaller but no less bright, from the witcher.

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Geralt softly. Jaskier gaped.

“Look at you, using your words,” he teased, trying to regain his bearings. “I’m so proud of you!” 

Five words had no right to sound that romantic. Why was he thinking about what sounded romantic? This was absolutely the wrong time for this. Way too soon, at the very least. Moving on!

Geralt smiled, and the decision to rejoin him was already worth it. 

Maglor cleared his throat. Jaskier jumped.

"All right. Well. Goodbye, Jaskier. I'm glad I got to know you. I'm not sure what is happening, but you should get going, I think. I won't keep you. I can create a diversion, if you think it would help?"

Jaskier blinked, then frowned up at the ridiculously tall not-man "What? Why? You're not coming with us?"

Maglor stared at him. "You want me to? he asked incredulously.

"What? Yes, of course! You're my friend! And anyway it’s not safe here, people are bound to send more bad things after the 'sirens.’" He mimed air quotes around the word, making a mental note to explain the gesture later when Maglor just looked confused. 

“You can’t just stay here. Geralt, can he come?” He turned his best puppy dog eyes on Geralt. It was probably a bit early to start potentially irritating Geralt all over again, but he couldn’t just leave Maglor behind! “He’s very helpful, not nearly as annoying as I am!”

Geralt looked at Maglor, then at Jaskier, then back at Maglor. Jaskier couldn’t have said which of the two of them looked more bewildered. 

“He can come!” said Ciri, interrupting imperiously. Geralt blinked.

“Oh, can he now?” he asked her, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she said. “I am a princess and I think he looks nice. He can come.”

Jaskier watched in delighted shock as Geralt’s stern reserve melted under the little girl’s gaze. He stubbornly managed to stay silent for a few moments, then sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“All right, fine, he can come. But he’d better be trustworthy.”

Jaskier grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. “He is! You won’t regret this, I promise. I’ll go get our things!”

They set out not long after that. Geralt and Ciri rode Roach while Jaskier and Maglor walked alongside them. They travelled in silence for a long while, moving as quickly and stealthily as possible to get out of the area before the minions of Nilfgaard arrived. The atmosphere was tense. Jaskier could tell Geralt was on high alert, aware of every sound in the surrounding area. He knew that for the warning sign that it was and tried his best to stay quick and quiet.

Eventually, though, Geralt relaxed into his resting silent-and-brooding-but-not-actively-hostile posture, and Jaskier took this as silent permission to return to normal. Cautiously —he had to test the waters, after all— he started rambling cheerfully like he often did when they travelled together. Geralt’s only response was to hmmm in the appropriate places. Jaskier took this as a victory.

Eventually, he took a risk and pulled out his lute. Ciri was looking anxious and tired, and, well, Jaskier wasn't much for fighting monsters but he could definitely distract people with cheerful ballads. He started with one of the adventure songs he’d sung on the coast before he’d almost got himself drowned. By the time he was done Ciri was clapping along to the rhythm, and with a grin, Jaskier rolled right into another song.

He played almost without stop until they found a place to camp. His throat was sore and his fingers raw by the end, but it was all worth it for Geralt’s grateful smile.

Geralt was having a strange day.

That in and of itself was impressive. He’d been through so much at this point that it was rare for anything to even register as surprising. He’d learned to just shrug and accept most of the strange things life threw at him, with a little cursing thrown in for good measure.

But finding out his long-lost friend was dead, finding out his friend was not dead, apologizing to said friend for being a terrible person, actually being somewhat forgiven, and regaining his friend as a travel companion was a lot to go through in such a short span of time. Even for him. 

To be fair, as strange days went, this one was turning out pretty well. He’d apparently got his friend back, something he’d only barely dared to hope for. He finally had a chance to try and make things right. He had a second chance; that was strange in its own right, because it was good. He supposed it was fitting that Jaskier had been the one to give it to him. Jaskier had always been an unexpected good in his life, even when Geralt had not appreciated it. 

And then, to top all of the strangeness off, there was Maglor. 

Geralt didn’t know what to make of him. He didn’t seem particularly suspicious, but he also didn’t seem like anything else Geralt had ever seen or heard of. He had been distracted by the conversation with Jaskier, and so hadn’t given Maglor much thought until suddenly Jaskier was begging for him to be allowed to join them.

Geralt’s first instinct was an unambiguous no. Maglor was an unknown variable, and that was dangerous. He was a risk. Geralt was not allowing Ciri near any risks. It had nothing to do with the fact that it stung to see Jaskier so attached to someone else; it was simply an assessment of the facts. He couldn’t give Jaskier this; there were too many ways it could go wrong. 

But Maglor had seemed kind, that morning on the cliff, and hadn’t done anything remotely suspicious that Geralt could tell. He had hung back while Geralt had spoken with Ciri and with Jaskier, and had seemed genuinely surprised at the notion that Jaskier might want him along. He looked half-starved and weatherbeaten, not strong or imposing. He was strange, definitely, and that made Geralt wary, but he didn’t seem particularly dangerous. And Jaskier trusted him.

A year ago, Geralt would have turned him away. He would have listened to his own suspicions over Jaskier’s pleading. Jaskier was far too trusting; he trusted Geralt, after all, while all reasonable people were terrified of him. But Geralt had realized, over the last year, that Jaskier was perhaps more sensible than he seemed. He had been against going on the dragon hunt, and Geralt’s ignoring him had turned into a spectacular disaster. His songs had affected the witcher’s reputations more than even Geralt had realized. And Geralt owed him, for what he’d said on the mountain and for the years of subtle hurt before it. Geralt had been wrong before. Perhaps he was wrong now.

So he had swallowed his doubts, taken a chance, and followed Jaskier’s advice.

The day’s journey had been long. Jaskier had walked in his usual spot beside Roach without question —he needed to get a horse of his own, one of these days— and Maglor had walked beside him. They had travelled in silence for a while, but eventually Jaskeir began to sing. Geralt hadn’t quite realized how much he’d missed the sound. Ciri had enjoyed it as well, and Geralt was overjoyed to see her smiling again after everything she’d been through. This was everything he hadn’t dared to hope for, and Geralt was determined not to ruin it again.

Jaskier’s voice had tired out after a few hours, and Geralt decided to call a halt. They had travelled far enough that they were reasonably safe from discovery, and Geralt didn’t want to wear Ciri or Jaskeir out any more than necessary. It didn’t take long for them to find a place to settle down for the night and set up camp. 

Once they had settled down, though, Ciri began to get restless. Geralt could see the way she twiddled her fingers nervously. It was the men from before, he guessed. Being pursued so closely was a trying experience for anyone, let alone a little girl. He wished he could help, but he didn’t know how, and Jaskier was looking exhausted from the fast pace they’d been maintaining.

Then, in the silence, Maglor began to sing. 

It was a ballad, a tale of star-crossed lovers. There was no instrumental accompaniment, only Maglor’s voice, but it was enough. A beautiful non-human woman —elven, perhaps?— fell in love with a human outlaw despite her parents' disapproval. Her father declared that they could only be married if the human performed the impossible task of stealing a magical gem from the powerful lord of evil in the north, and their love for each other was so strong that they ran away to attempt the task. They had various adventures which were rather difficult to follow. The human gathered allies from a nearby elven kingdom, but they were captured and his loyal friends all died. The human survived due to his friends' sacrifices, however, and was rescued by the elven maiden and a magical dog she had stolen from the elves who had kidnapped her in the meantime. 

It culminated in the successful theft of the magical gem, at the cost of the human's life. The elf's grief, however, was so moving that the gods took pity on her and sent the human back. The elf became mortal to be with her lover, and together they lived out the remainder of their days in bliss. 

It was a good song, if a bit over-cheerful in the ending. The wording was awkward in places, but Maglor pulled it off with such emotion that it almost seemed real at times. It was also long, and served to very effectively distract Ciri. Geralt watched in startled happiness as she got wrapped up in the tale, eyes wide and wondering. Jaskier seemed equally enraptured by the performance. Geralt finished preparing dinner as the tale reached its close, and he nodded gratefully to Maglor when he handed him some stew. He sat down to eat his own dinner in an atmosphere much lighter than before.

Ciri applauded. “That was wonderful!”

Jaskier nodded happily at her words. 

"What did you think?" Maglor asked, turning to Geralt a strange smile tugging at his lips.

"You're good at making your inventions seem convincing," said Geralt, saying the first neutral-sounding thing that came to mind. He’d learned his lesson about needlessly insulting bards.

Maglor seemed amused by his words. "I'm really not." 

"No need to be modest. I almost believed it, which is better than Jaskier's ever done." Well, maybe he hadn’t completely learned his lesson.

The bard made an outraged squawking sound behind him and Geralt smiled. He’d missed this. 

"I'll have you know that most of my songs are true! It's just a little dramatic embellishment, is all."

Geralt rolled his eyes fondly. Some things never changed.

"No, I'm afraid Jaskier wins this particular competition," said Maglor. "It wasn't an invention."

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't bother, I know your bardic secrets. I get this stuff enough from Jaskier."

"Excuse me—"

"Really, it wasn't fiction," Maglor interrupted, seeming sad and bitterly amused at the same time. "I wasn't there but I can assure you of its validity, at least in the major points."

"You don't really expect us to believe that there was an all-powerful lord of evil who was defeated by a singing elf-maiden and her talking dog, do you?" asked Jaskier, interest overcoming his temporary indignation.

"Believe what you like, but it's true. Things were different back then."

Geralt shook his head. "It's too happy. Things don't work out so neatly in real life. And really, the man coming back from the dead? It makes no sense."

Maglor laughed "Finrod and all his companions were eaten by wolves, Beren lost a hand and his life, and Thingol and Melian were doomed to be separated from their daughter for all time. I wouldn't call it a purely joyful tale."

Geralt just looked at him. 

"But I agree with you," Maglor continued, "It is too happy. Mostly because I left out the part where these events directly caused the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Fall of Nargothrond, and the second two Kinslayings, and ultimately thousands of deaths."

Geralt blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

"And believe me, we were all just as surprised about the whole defeating Sauron and coming back from the dead thing as you were. I wouldn't have believed it myself, but we had too much evidence for it to be anything but true."

There was a moment of silence. 

Jaskier's eyes were wide. "You were there?"

"Not personally, but I knew many of the people involved. The Finrod who was eaten by wolves was my cousin. Celegorm and Curufin were my brothers."

"The two who kidnapped Lúthien? And who owned the magic dog?"

"Yes."

Jaskier stared at him. “Really?”

Maglor nodded sadly. “I don’t expect you to believe it, though. I know how it sounds.”

Geralt hummed. “It makes a good story, either way.”

Jaskier blinked. “Since when do you appreciate what makes a good story?”

“You must be rubbing off on me, I suppose.”

“Here we have it: my life’s greatest achievement, the epitome of my career! I never thought I’d live to see such a glorious day as that when Geralt of Rivia acknowledged a good story!”

Geralt couldn’t quite keep the fond smile off his face. “It's one of the perils of travelling with a bard. I lose my witcher’s dignity.”

Jaskier looked haughtily down his nose at Geralt. “Well, I should certainly hope so.” He turned to Maglor, ignoring Geralt’s smirk. “I agree, despite what this heathen says. It did make a good story.”

Maglor smiled sadly. “It did, didn’t it?”

Geralt went to sleep that night with more unanswered questions than he had before, but he wasn’t overly worried about them. He had Jaskier back. For now, that was enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets some much-needed hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update! Life threw some curveballs and the last few days have been really busy. We should be back to our normal update schedule now -- the next chapter will be up on Sunday!
> 
> Also, I'd like to once again thank everyone who's taken the time to comment on this fic so far! Even if it takes me a while to respond, know that I treasure each and every one of them. You guys are the best <3

Apparently, winter was on its way.

Jaskier could tell because it was  _ cold. _

They’d been travelling for several days now. Once upon a time, Jaskier would have been exhausted by a trek like this, but years following Geralt through the deepest, darkest corners of the Continent had increased his endurance beyond what he would have thought possible. Maglor, for all his weary and weatherbeaten appearance, seemed even more able to travel without rest than Jaskier. The two of them passed much of the time taking turns singing to Ciri. 

Up until today, the cold hadn’t been a problem either, but Jaskier supposed this had been inevitable. He was even less prepared for winter than usual. He hadn't been particularly well-supplied on the dragon hunt, and in the emotional turmoil that followed he'd never bothered stopping for anything but necessities. And, of course, he'd lost almost everything he'd had during his unplanned swim in a stormy death trap. He still missed that notebook— 

A frigid breeze dragged him out of his musings and he shivered.

It was  _ cold. _

But Nilfgaard was behind them and Kaer Morhen was theoretically ahead, and the Witchers couldn't spend all winter in the freezing cold, could they? He just had to get there. Then he could be as warm as he wanted.

He ignored the fact that witchers probably don’t need as much warmth as humans, grit his teeth, and bore the weather with only minimal complaining.

Jaskier was shivering.

Geralt kicked himself for not noticing sooner. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been doing wrong for the last twenty years, exactly the kind of thing he was trying to fix. Jaskier was important and deserved better from Geralt. Geralt had to fix this. 

He found them a place to camp earlier than usual. It was getting dark anyway, and Ciri was probably feeling the effects of the cold too, even if Geralt wasn’t yet. Maglor showed no sign of fatigue or of even having noticed the temperature change —what on the Continent  _ was _ that guy?— but Geralt wouldn’t put it past him to hide it after the incident a few days back when he went three miles with a rock in his shoe and didn’t say anything.

Geralt threw far more logs on the fire than usual, as well. The risks of the cold outweighed the risks of being seen at this point, especially now they were out in the wilderness. They had found a spot surrounded by trees, reasonably sheltered both from prying eyes and the wind. It was significantly less cold than the road, and Geralt must have been colder than he’d realized because even he was relieved by the change. He threw another log on the fire for good measure, getting it up to a roaring blaze. This was much warmer.

Which made him very concerned when Jaskier was still shivering.

Maybe a hot meal would help.

Geralt found some rabbits and helped Jaskier make them a stew. It was surprisingly good, and Geralt smiled gratefully at the bard for his help. He’d never been much of a cook, but Jaskier more than compensated for his lack of ability. 

Jaskier blinked, then beamed back delightedly. He wasn’t shivering as much now. Good.

Jaskier looked away and began to eat, still smiling. Soon, he started singing between bites —Geralt had never understood why he did it or how he pulled it off so well, but he was used to it at this point— and Ciri started clapping along. Satisfied at their safety, he allowed his mind to wander into planning for the next day.

Geralt watched from where he lay in his bedroll as Jaskier settled down for the night. Even after a week, he sometimes had a hard time believing that his bard was really back. His eyes traced the familiar outline of the bard silhouetted against the light of the dying fire, reassuring himself that he was still there and unharmed.

Then he noticed Jaskier was shivering again.

That was bad. Geralt couldn’t build up the fire again if they were all going to be asleep; it could spread in the night or attract any number of unsavoury creatures before they were aware of it. He couldn’t stay up to guard it, either; as much as he hated to admit it, all of them needed rest if they were going to make it to Kaer Morhen on time. 

But he couldn’t just let Jaskier spend the night freezing and uncomfortable. He was human, terrifyingly fragile and Geralt had put the man through enough hardship already. Besides, Ciri was likely cold as well, even if her magic offset it a little. The last thing they needed was for one of them to get sick.

He could only think of one thing to do.

He rolled out of his bedroll and pulled it over to Jaskier’s. He resisted the urge to curse when he saw the bard more closely. It was no wonder he was cold: the man seemed to be wrapped only in an old blanket.

“Where’s your bedroll?” Geralt asked, his voice coming out gruffer than he intended it to in his concern.

Jaskier rolled over to blink up at him. His hair shone beautifully in the light of the dying fire. Geralt had to shove down the urge to touch it; now was not the time. Possibly there would never be a time.

“I lost it,” said the bard, biting his lip. “It didn’t matter much. I’ve been sleeping in Maglor’s tent for the last few months.”

“How in the world did you lose your bedroll?” Geralt asked, amused. He continued to position his own next to Jaskier’s, ignoring the bard’s confused look. Ciri sat up from her bedroll and looked at them curiously.

“Well it’s rather difficult to keep track of one’s supplies when one is about to be crushed and drowned to death in the roaring ocean,” said Jaskier. 

Geralt turned to stare at him properly.  _ “What?” _

Jaskier looked sheepish. “I may have taken an unplanned swim at one point. That’s how I met Maglor.”

Geralt did not understand how the second sentence followed from the first. Apparently this showed on his face, because Maglor chimed in from his place across the fire.

“I had to rescue him. He was drowning.”

Geralt looked up at Maglor. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d died.”

Jaskier made a soft and somewhat strangled noise from where he lay, but Geralt ignored him. Maglor smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Geralt nodded at him. Having situated his bedroll directly behind Jaskier’s, he lay down on his side and wrapped his arms around the bard’s chest. Jaskier froze, but he didn’t push Geralt away and Geralt took this as implicit permission to continue. He pulled the bard backwards until Jaskeir was tucked securely in Geralt’s arms, his back pressed against Geralt’s chest. He repositioned the blanket so it covered both of them. Good. The bard was now wrapped in his own blanket, then Geralt’s arms, then Geralt’s blanket. That should warm him up.

Jaskier was stiff against Geralt, breathing faster than usual. Geralt could feel his heart going at twice it’s normal rate. He wasn’t shivering, though, and he didn’t smell of negative emotions. Geralt was fairly sure that meant this was fine.

“Geralt?” the bard choked out eventually. “What are you doing?”

Geralt huffed a little sigh and pulled him closer. “You were cold. Now you’re not.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier relaxed a little against Geralt. After a moment, he twisted his head to look over his shoulder at the Witcher.

“Are you going to stay there? All night?”

“If I left, you’d just get cold again.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

They were silent for a moment, Geralt waiting patiently as Jaskier’s heart slowed to its usual rate. Once the bard was calm again, Geralt raised his head a little and called softly to where Ciri lay.

“Ciri? Are you cold?”

“Um, a bit?” Her immediate response betrayed the fact that she hadn’t stopped watching them.

“Come over here,” said Geralt.

“Okay!” she chirped. A loud rustling told Geralt that she was dragging her bedroll over to his. It didn’t take long for her to cuddle up to Jaskier’s front, one of Geralt’s arms over both of them while the other stayed trapped beneath Jaskier. She gave a contented sigh and burrowed into Jaskier’s arms, making the bard laugh and pull her closer. Geralt couldn’t help a soft smile.

“Maglor! Come help!” called Ciri, making Geralt jump. She’d grown increasingly attached to Maglor lately, so Geralt supposed this shouldn’t be a surprise. 

Maglor jumped as well, looking at her in shock from his place across the fire. “What?”

“Come help make us warm! You shouldn’t be cold, either,” Ciri insisted.

Maglor looked completely lost for words. He glanced almost nervously at Geralt. Jaskier looked at Geralt as well, as though trying to gauge his reaction.

Geralt weighed the options in his mind. He wasn’t sure that he trusted Maglor yet. He didn’t even know what he was or much of anything about him. Not long ago Geralt would have pushed him away without question.

But not long ago Geralt also would never have dared to hold Jaskier like this. Not long ago Geralt had been mistaken about so many things, been unkind where he should have been grateful. Maglor had saved Jaskier’s life when Geralt wasn’t there to help. He was unfailingly kind and gentle to Ciri. Both Ciri and Jaskier trusted him, and they were generally better at telling these things than Geralt. Well, maybe not Jaskier, but still.

In the end, it was the wistful, longing expression on Maglor’s face that made up Geralt’s mind. He knew that loneliness better than he’d like to admit.

Geralt shrugged the shoulder he wasn’t lying on, jostling Jaskier a little in the process and earning him an elbow from the bard. “We need all the warmth we can get.”

Maglor’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his features for a moment before he changed his expression to something more neutral. He picked up his blanket slowly and methodically —Geralt noted that he didn’t have a bedroll either— and made his way over to them. He settled down next to Ciri, every movement slow and careful as though leaving plenty of time for them to move away. He was shaking a little. Geralt didn’t think it was from the cold.

Ciri grabbed his arm and pulled him down to her, and Maglor fell with a yelp that turned into a laugh. 

There were a few moments of rustling and repositioning as everyone got comfortable, but it wasn’t long before they were all settled. Geralt felt surprisingly relaxed, the soft sound of breathing calming him and their bodies keeping each other warm even as the fire dyed down to embers. 

Jaskier let out a contented sigh and nestled closer to Geralt. Geralt responded by tucking the bard’s head securely beneath his chin, huffing a small laugh. Jaskier smiled sleepily.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he mumbled.

Unable to help himself, Geralt pressed a soft kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thought process in writing this chapter is summed up in what I scribbled in the margin of my notebook: Huddling for warmth scene?!? YES
> 
> Anyway, I hope you had as much fun reading as I did writing! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor is forced to put some old skills to use.

Jaskier was having a wonderful time.

They were getting close to Kaer Morhen now. According to Geralt, it was only a little more than a week’s journey from here to the keep. Jaskier was beyond excited to finally see the witcher’s keep he’d heard so much about, but even that couldn’t bring him to be weary of the journey there.

After all, he had Cirilla, who was just as much of a joy as he remembered her being and for whom he would happily sing until his voice broke. He had Maglor, who was still quiet and kind and who still enjoyed learning more about Jaskier’s language during otherwise quiet times on the road. He had Geralt back, something he had never quite dared to expect, and not only did Geralt seem to be making an effort to speak more and be less harsh, at night he was downright  _ cuddly. _ Jaskier knew it was a perfectly logical way to deal with the cold and inadequate supplies, but he still couldn’t quite get over his giddy surprise when Geralt drew him closer every night. What more could he want?

So yes, despite the fact that they were technically on the run from Nilfgaard, Jaskier was quite enjoying himself. At this particular moment he was singing a jaunty tune, dancing around Roach with little twirls, and pretending Geralt’s half-hidden smile wasn’t setting his heart aflutter. Ciri was clapping along enthusiastically, Maglor looked content, and Jaskier couldn’t have held back his ear-to-ear grin even if he’d wanted to.

And then came the roar. 

It was deep and terrifying, coming from high in the air behind them. Probably some sort of draconid. Jaskier and Geralt sprang into motion at the same time. Jaskier ran to take Roach’s reins as Geralt dismounted in one smooth motion. A quick glance confirmed that it was either a forktail or a wyvern. Jaskier handed Geralt his potions from the saddlebags —Golden Oriole for venom, Blizzard for reflexes— and took Ciri’s hand, gesturing for Maglor to join them as he hurried her and Roach off the road. Draconids attack from the air, so Jaskier herded the group of them under some low trees close enough to the road to see what was going on but far enough to be at least a bit safer. He pushed Ciri into the deepest part of the thicket, then crouched down to watch.

Geralt drew his silver sword and charged.

The wyvern dove at him with an ear-splitting screech, claws outstretched. Geralt ducked and rolled to the side. He brought his sword up behind him to slash at the wyvern’s talons, but only managed to graze its ankle. The creature screeched again and flapped backwards. It wheeled around before preparing to dive again. Geralt crouched and drew the silver knife from his boot. He threw it with deadly accuracy at the wyvern’s equivalent of an elbow. The creature roared in pain as its flight was thrown off course, but it caught Geralt with its wing as it fell and both of them were knocked to the ground.

Jaskier was tense. Once upon a time, he would have been bewildered by it all, but travelling with Geralt for years had made him an experienced witcher-watcher. He’d learned that one needed to keep a close eye on Geralt while he fought if one wanted to know if he was injured; that idiot was terrifyingly good at hiding his wounds and was not going to ask for help unless he was in imminent danger of death. Sometimes not even then. So Jaskier had learned how to watch from the sidelines, how to strike the balance between keeping an eye on the witcher and distracting him by getting into trouble, and how to tell what was going on.

Which was why Jaskier could tell that this fight might go very badly.

Under normal circumstances, wyverns were difficult but manageable. Unfortunately, being taken by surprise after a long week of trekking through the wilderness as fast as possible meant that Geralt was not in top form. Jaskier could tell he was slowing, could see him wavering where normally he would hold firm. The witcher rolled to his feet marginally slower than he normally would, and the wyvern was on him before he could take advantage of its disorientation. The two traded lightning-quick blows that would have most people in awe, but Jaskier could see that Geralt wasn’t getting quite as many hits in as he normally would. He clenched his jaw nervously. This was not going well.

Jaskier winced as a claw cut a gash across Geralt’s arm. That was going to need stitches. Geralt snarled and swung his sword upward, but the creature dodged and only received a blow to its underwing. It roared in pain but didn’t slow, immediately lunging at Geralt. 

Geralt dodged to the side and turned to bring his sword down on its back, but the wyvern lunged out of the way and swiped at his leg with its uninjured wing. Geralt yelled in pain and fell to his knees, barely rolling out of the way as the creature lunged again. Jaskier watched in terror as Geralt tried to get to his feet, only to be tackled to the ground by the wyvern. His sword flew out of his hand and skittered across the ground to land well out of Geralt’s reach. It roared in triumph from where it stood, pinning Geralt to the ground on his back.

The logical part of Jaskier knew that he should run, or yell, or  _ do something, _ but he was frozen in helpless horror and could only watch as the wyvern raised its venomous tail for the kill.

The moment a sword had been drawn, Maglor went into combat mode.

His senses sharpened, adrenaline flooding his body with energy and making him hyper-aware of every sound and movement. His awareness narrowed until it was only the present moment, past and future unimportant in the moment. Geralt charged the monster and Maglor reached for his own sword to aid him— 

Only to find himself grasping at nothingness.

The awareness of what had happened came crashing down on him. He was a war criminal. A murderer. A monster. He had promised himself —not sworn, never sworn— not to take up a sword, not to harm another person ever again. He’d thrown away his sword for a good reason, perhaps the only thing he’d done for a good reason in his life. And he had been about to pick it up again. Horror filled him at the thought. 

A roar from the monster shook him out of his thoughts. He had to help Ciri and Jaskier now. His penance could wait. He and Jaskier ushered Ciri to the side of the road and found a good place to watch unnoticed. 

Maglor’s attention was distracted by the monster. He had no idea what it was. If this were Beleriand or even Second or Third Age Middle-Earth, he would immediately have suspected some new devilry of Morgoth’s or Sauron’s. He supposed it could still be an indirect product of their deeds, whatever it was. Somehow, it still surprised him how many different forms evil could take.

Then Geralt yelled in pain and Maglor came flying back to the present. Jaskier gasped in horror as the monster pinned Geralt to the ground. Geralt’s sword was far out of reach now, and in this position, he couldn’t reach the other one. The moment the monster finished gloating, he was going to die.

The sword glinted in the sunlight, almost tauntingly.

Maglor could take it.

It wasn’t that far. He could easily jump out of hiding, seize the sword, and distract the monster from Geralt. He was rusty, but he’d defeated worse things before. He might even survive the encounter.

No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself with a weapon, not again. What if he couldn’t put it down? What if he hurt someone?

But that had been the Oath. It was gone, now, or at least inactive as long as the Silmarils were inaccessible. If he didn’t take the sword, he would be hurting someone with his inaction. Just like he had with Amras, with Maedhros, with far too many others. If he did nothing Geralt would die, as sure as if Maglor had slit his throat himself. 

He had no time to decide.

“Stay here,” he barked to Jaskier and Ciri, and then he was jumping out of hiding and running for the sword.

He scooped it up with one smooth motion, adjusting his grip and feeling the weight of the weapon. It felt surprisingly familiar, but Maglor supposed that a sword was a sword no matter how many years passed. The monster roared. It reared to plunge its teeth into Geralt’s throat.

Well, if he was doing this, he might as well go all out.

_ “Aurë entuluva!” _ he roared. The monster looked up. 

Maglor gave a wordless yell and ran to meet it.

Things were blurry after that. Maglor adjusted to the new sword surprisingly quickly. He drove the creature off Geralt. He saw Jaskier in his peripheral vision dragging Geralt to safety. Good. The others were safe now. Now Maglor could focus. Things were going surprisingly well. He began to think he might make it out of this after all.

Then the monster got desperate.

Maglor was flagging. He wasn’t used to such exertion anymore. He had more practice fighting orcs and humans and elves than beasts and monsters. This creature was dying, but its desperation gave it strength and Maglor was slowly being pushed onto the defensive.

Desperate, he began to sing.

It was sloppy. He hadn’t sung a Song of Power in a very long time. It wasn’t nearly as strong as it would have been back in Beleriand. 

It worked surprisingly well. The creature was confused and that gave Maglor time. He pressed his advantage, pouring as much raw power and chaos into the Song as he could muster. He timed his strikes so they fell completely at odds with the rhythm of the music. 

The monster screeched in pain as he landed a hit across its abdomen. It was flagging. Its eyes were wide with bewilderment and pain. Maglor pressed his advantage. He dodged its clumsy attack, ducked under its defences, and buried his sword deep in the creature’s throat.

It stood there for a moment, pain-filled eyes locked with Maglor’s. Slowly, it fell to the ground, and it did not move again.

Maglor stared at it, breathing heavily. The adrenaline left his body in a rush and his vision wavered. The last thing he heard was a voice that sounded like Jaskier shouting before he fell to his knees and lost track of his surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a Tolkien character, I feel that Maglor has the right to indulge in the age-old Tolkienian tradition of passing out in the middle of a battle when convenient for the author. 
> 
> Most of what I know about monsters and potions from the Witcher comes from assorted fics and wikis, so apologies for any inconsistencies with canon!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are some conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, huge thanks to everyone who's following along with this story! Reading your comments is the highlight of my week. Internet hugs to all of you! <3

Jaskier was on the verge of throwing caution to the winds and rushing to Geralt in a probably-futile attempt at defending him when Maglor shoved past him onto the road. 

Jaskier was then on the verge of throwing caution to the winds and rushing to help Maglor, but Maglor picked up Geralt’s sword and charged the wyvern like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jaskier’s concern for Geralt overwhelmed once more any other thoughts.

“Stay here!” he barked to Ciri (who made an indignant noise which Jaskier ignored) and rushed to help his Witcher.

By the time he reached him, Geralt was already struggling to get to his feet. Jaskier glanced over him and quickly catalogued his injuries —gash across the right shoulder and upper arm, another just below the back of the left knee, puncture wounds where the wyvern’s talons had pierced the torso, possible sprained ankle from the fall— before moving to help Geralt to his feet while aggravating as few of them as possible. They managed to make it to where Ciri and Roach were, miraculously, still waiting, without much trouble. A glance at Maglor confirmed him to not be in danger of death, so Jaskier took another look at Geralt. 

It wasn’t pretty, but it definitely wasn’t the worst Jaskier had seen. Travelling would be awkward for a while, but hopefully that would be the worst of it. Jaskier was already mentally searching for likely places where he could patch Geralt up and the supplies he would need to do so when he heard a very unexpected sound from the battle.

Was that  _ singing? _

Jaskier turned around, his brain belatedly registered what exactly was going on, and he nearly short-circuited. Maglor was fighting the wyvern. Maglor, the unassuming bard who was nothing but nervous and cautious and kind, had taken up Geralt’s sword like it was an extension of his arm and was successfully  _ battling a wyvern? _

And not only was Maglor fighting a wyvern, but he was also  _ singing. _

It was like nothing Jaskier had ever heard, except possibly on that night on the cliff when he’d first heard Maglor sing. There was an edge, a  _ power _ to it that even Jaskier’s poetic heart couldn’t find the words to describe. It was almost as if the very music was being used as a weapon, as if Maglor was wielding it with all the power and precision that Geralt used with his swords. He fought with the music and with the sword in tandem, and the already-injured wyvern was steadily beaten back until— 

Until it fell to the ground, dead, and Maglor collapsed beside it.

Oh, great.

Jaskier was at Maglor’s side in an instant; years of travelling with a Witcher had honed his medical instincts and collapsing after a fight was never a good sign. He immediately spotted a wound across the upper torso, but it was shallow and wasn’t bleeding nearly enough to cause a human to pass out. Maybe Maglor worked differently? Or maybe he was so exhausted from the fight that when the adrenaline faded he’d collapsed. His breathing seemed steady and his face wasn’t pale, so Jaskier decided it was safe to move him to somewhere not in the middle of a road next to the corpse of a wyvern. 

The next few hours were a blur of constant motion. Jaskier found them a place to camp for the time being, found and retrieved water, cleaned and stitched Geralt’s and Maglor’s wounds, made Geralt rest while he made food, and did everything he could think of for Maglor, all while keeping Ciri and Roach calm and safe. It should have been overwhelming, but over the years he’d dealt with so many situations like this that it barely even ranked among the stressful days he’d had. He made a poultice to guard against infection and rebandaged the wounds periodically, threatened Geralt with a wooden spoon so the idiot would actually get some sleep, and was overall far too busy to wonder about Maglor’s newfound talents for more than a few minutes before he finally collapsed next to Geralt and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next morning was uneventful. Jaskier got up earlier than he normally would to make breakfast and ensure that nobody was any closer to dying than he’d left them. Ciri was still sleeping soundly after the excitement of the previous day, and Geralt seemed content to watch Jaskier putter about the campsite. It was much the same as any post-hunt morning.

That is, until Maglor woke up. 

Jaskier could tell something had changed because of the way Geralt subtly tensed and shifted a little. Turning in the direction Geralt was wary of, he found two silver-grey eyes blinking blearily at him from where Maglor was now sitting up.

“Maglor!” said Jaskier, crossing over to him and carefully helping him to sit up. “How do you feel?”

“I feel all right?” said Maglor, blinking. “What happened?”

“You killed the wyvern!” said Jaskier, moving to check Maglor’s bandages as he spoke. “You collapsed as soon as it died. I couldn’t see anything wrong besides this talon wound, I think you just exhausted yourself with whatever it was you did. Thank you for doing that, by the way, even though it was stupid. You might have saved Geralt’s life. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d died.” Geralt made a Startled Witcher Noise and Jaskier smiled as he rambled. “It was incredible to watch, too! I had no idea you could do anything like it. I thought you’re a bard, not a warrior!”

Maglor frowned. “What’s the difference?”

Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri (who was apparently awake now) all stared at him. Jaskier blinked.

“A bard,” Jaskier said eventually, “Is a musician, a performer. We earn our living by performing songs for other people, either traveling from place to place or, more often, working for a specific court. A warrior is someone who fights, usually as part of an army but not necessarily. They often make a living by killing things.”

“Oh,” said Maglor. “That’s odd.”

Jaskier stared at him. “Were they not different things, in your time?”

“Not really, no. Not all warriors were bards, and not all bards were warriors, but many were both. Music is a powerful weapon.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed in thought. “So you really were using that song as a weapon, back there?”

“Yes. It would have killed me if I hadn’t. Is that not done anymore?”

“Not as far as I know.” Jaskier glanced at Geralt, who hummed in agreement. “I wasn’t aware it was possible.”

Maglor nodded thoughtfully. There was a moment of silence as everyone processed the information. Jaskier had a thousand more questions buzzing at the tip of his tongue, but Maglor spoke before he could ask them.

“You said it was a wyvern?”

“Yes,” said Geralt, speaking up for the first time. “Draconid. Poisonous tail, fast reflexes, strong as hell. Most humans wouldn’t have made it out of a fight like that alive.”

Maglor nodded thoughtfully.

“You aren’t human,” said Geralt. Jaskier tensed in anticipation. He’d long wanted to know the answer, but never had the courage to ask for fear of upsetting Maglor.

“No, I am not,” Maglor confirmed.

“What are you?”

Maglor thought for a moment. “I don’t know what the term would be in your language, if you even had a term. We usually called ourselves the Eldar.”

“What is an Eldar?”

“The singular is Elda.”

Geralt huffed, frustrated. “What is an Elda?”

Maglor ignored his frustration, thinking in silence for a long moment. “The Eldar are the Firstborn,” he said eventually. “We were the first of Eru’s children to awake in Arda, and we will be in Arda until its end.”

Geralt frowned, looking like he was about to ask something else —and Jaskier certainly had more questions than he could count— but Maglor beat him to it again.

"You're not human either. What are you?"

Geralt stared at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Geralt blinked slowly. “I’m a Witcher,” he said eventually.

“And what is a Witcher?” Maglor said the word slowly, feeling out its sounds.

Geralt stared at him. “You’re joking,” he decided. 

“I’m really not. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of one. Not that it’s terribly surprising, I haven’t really done much lately.”

“How long had you been wandering the coast before you met me?” asked Jaskier, unable to keep silent any longer.

“I don’t know. A very long time. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“A Witcher is a monster hunter,” said Jaskier. “Human children are taken and mutated to become legendary warriors. They make a living travelling the Continent and killing monsters like that wyvern for money. Some people say that they’re monsters as well, but that is a load of nonsense and anyone who believes it deserves a barstool smashed over their head.”

“I thought I told you to stop doing that,” Geralt sighed.

“You did. I ignored you,” said Jaskier primly. Geralt shot him a half-hearted glare, but he mostly just looked exasperatedly resigned. Jaskier smirked. 

“I know about beings most humans have never heard of,” said Geralt, turning to Maglor. “It’s my job. But I’ve never heard of the Eldar.”

Maglor smiled sadly. “That’s not surprising. It has been a very, very long time since there were many of us.”

Jaskier desperately wanted to ask more, his curiosity almost a physical itch, but he restrained himself. Travelling with Geralt had taught him that sometimes, there was value in a little bit of tact. Maglor looked so sad and tired that Jaskier didn’t quite dare to ask what had happened to the rest of the Eldar, despite the almost burning desire to do so. Maglor was still injured and tired, anyway. Now was not the time for difficult conversations. 

Instead, Jaskier finished checking Maglor’s bandages and handed him some food, turning to Geralt when he was done.

“As much as I’d like to make you brave idiots rest and recover for a good few days, I have a feeling we can’t afford the wait. How far is it to the keep?”

“About a week’s journey.”

“All right. What do we need?”

“Food and water, mostly. And I should check on my swords and armor.” Geralt started to get up, but Jaskier pushed him back down with a huff.

“You stay there and rest. I can handle this, but I can’t have you passing out in the saddle on me.”

Geralt looked like he was going to protest, but Jaskier cut him off.

“I set some snares last night and at least a few of them should have caught something. There’s a stream not far from here and our waterskins are already filled. I cleaned your swords and armor and checked on the swords like you showed me, but if you don’t believe me I can bring them here and you can see for yourself. I’ve got this, Geralt. I just need you to take care of yourself for once in your stupid life.”

Geralt stared at him with his surprised frowny face for a moment, then nodded. Jaskier beamed and set off to check the snares, leaving Geralt and Maglor together to rest.

Maglor stayed silent for a long time after Jaskier left, staring off into the trees and processing everything that had happened. He hadn’t entirely expected to survive the fight long enough to have to explain it to the others. Geralt and Jaskier hadn’t reacted nearly as strongly as he’d expected to his display of combat prowess, but they still had questions and Maglor wasn’t sure how to go about answering them. He was strangely reluctant to explain his past to them. 

He knew they would want him to leave as soon as they found out who he really was, what he’d done. It startled him how much the thought terrified him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on the human contact. That was not good, not good at all. He didn’t deserve comfort or even warmth. He was a monster—

But Ciri wasn’t. Jaskier wasn’t. Geralt probably wasn’t. Yesterday, Maglor had shown that he was useful to them. He had prevented something bad from happening to one of them. He couldn’t bear it if something happened to one of them when he was not there to prevent it. His traveling with them was for their good, not his. Stopping would simply be selfishness on his part. He was helpful to them, he had proved that today. It would be unfair of him to leave now.

He could stick around until they reached the keep.

He ignored his relief at the thought and continued staring off into the distance until he heard movement from Geralt.

He turned to look at the not-human —the Witcher, apparently— and was oddly relieved to note that he was only shifting his position. It wouldn’t do to irritate Jaskier. 

Geralt looked like he was working himself up to say something. Maglor let him stew over whatever it was in silence, content to wait for as long as was needed.

Eventually, Geralt spoke. “You fought the wyvern.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Maglor frowned. “You were going to die. I had to do something.”

“So you risked your own life?”

“Yes.”

Geralt stewed over that in silence for a moment, seeming no less confused than before. 

“Why are you so kind to me?” he bit out eventually. “Jaskier is just… Jaskier, but you’re nothing like that. More sensible. Why do you care?”

Maglor sighed. This poor person deserved better than whatever life had thrown at him. He decided honesty was the best route here. It always had been with Nelyo.

“Now? Because you’re a good person, I like you, and you deserve better than you have. At first? Those were part of the reason, but it certainly didn’t hurt that you reminded me so much of my brothers.” He looked off into the forest, eyes distant.

Geralt blinked. “I what?”

Maglor looked back at him, smiling sadly. “You reminded me of my brothers. You still do, but I know you well enough by now to see the differences, too.”

Geralt just stared at him. “What about me could possibly remind someone of their brothers?”

“There’s a surprising amount of similarity, actually. The most obvious of which being your downright startling resemblance to Tyelko— Celegorm, I should say.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed in confusion and he continued to stare at Maglor.

“Your brother… looks like me?”

Maglor nodded. “Surprisingly so. You share the hair, the ridiculous muscles, the assortment of strange scars. Your eyes are different, and you have different faces, but at first glance, it’s downright terrifying. I thought I had finally gone mad when I first saw you.”

Geralt was staring at him like he was indeed mad.

“Is he a Witcher?” he asked eventually.

“No, he was just odd. But we all were, back then. I can’t judge.”

Beneath the brooding exterior, Geralt looked completely bewildered. 

“You’re lying,” he said after a moment, almost cautiously. 

Maglor smiled sadly again. “I’m not, but you don’t have to believe me. I know how strange it sounds.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “It really was natural, if it helps. The muscle was from our mother and the hair from our paternal grandmother. It caused quite the controversy when he was young, I can tell you. The scars were just from his various escapades, at first anyway.”

A voice spoke from behind them, and Maglor jumped. He hadn’t noticed Jaskier returning.

“You said he reminds you of your brothers, plural?”

Maglor blinked. “Yes. He reminds me of Celegorm most of all, but Caranthir had a similar way of brooding and not talking to anyone.”

Geralt made a grumbling noise at that, and Jaskier laughed.

“And some days, you remind me a lot of Maedhros. He was the sensible one, and he went through a lot of terrible things.” Maglor looked sad and shook his head. “But really, I think you are probably a better person than any of us were.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Maglor blinked. He hadn’t meant to go that far. He had to backtrack or they would send him away before he saw them safely to the keep.

“Oh, nothing. We made a lot of mistakes in our time, that's all. You two seem much wiser than we ever were.”

Geralt snorted at that, but he seemed to have used up his limited stock of words for the day. Jaskier looked like he wanted to pry further but also said nothing. Maglor was grateful.

“Is it time to set out?” he asked, changing the subject. Jaskier nodded reluctantly.

“Everything’s set. We’ll take things slow today, all right? I can’t have you two self-sacrificing idiots passing out on me.”

Maglor smiled, nodded, and got to his feet. Soon he would see everyone to the keep, and everything would turn out all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many little similarities between Geralt's storyline and the Silmarillion and I can't get over them. The resemblance between Geralt and Celegorm is almost uncanny. Sometimes I can't tell which of them is in a given piece of fanart!
> 
> We're almost to Kaer Morhen! Some of the other witchers will make an appearance soon, so stay tuned ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we arrive at Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I discovered today that there's an elf character in the Witcher games named Caranthir. According to the wiki, he's "secretive and pragmatic" but also has a "rash temper."
> 
> I don't know which is more hilarious: the idea that elves in the Witcher name their children after war criminals in the Silmarillion or the idea that Caranthir somehow broke out of Mandos to create trouble in the Witcher world. Either way, Maglor will have an interesting day if he ever finds out! 🤣 
> 
> I don't know much about the extended Witcher lore, so if anybody knows more about this guy, feel free to tell me lol.
> 
> Many thanks to Magicat for the help beta-ing this chapter!

In the end, it was Jaskier who got them to the keep.

Maglor was surprised by the bard’s healing skills. Jaskier seemed completely unfazed by Geralt’s injuries, let alone Maglor’s, and dealt with them remarkably well. Geralt had essentially been their leader up until the fight, but afterwards, Jaskier had smoothly taken over his role. Geralt kept them going the right way from atop his horse (whose name was Roach, apparently), but Jaskier was the one to call halts and find places to camp. He kept morale up, too. If anyone looked like they were drifting into unpleasant thoughts or feeling uncomfortable, Jaskier would interrupt them with a ballad and soon everyone would be happily singing along.

The journey passed much smoother and quicker than Maglor had expected. They didn’t encounter any more monsters, so Maglor didn’t even have to look at a sword again. Things got more difficult once they neared their destination —the trail was narrow and treacherous, and Geralt had to dismount and lead the way at multiple points— but overall, the journey was easy. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the witchers’ keep.

It was impressive, to say the least. Maglor looked up at the towering, half-ruined fortress, and was abruptly reminded of how Himring and Amon Ereb had looked in the waning years of the First Age. It was strong and striking, even in its crumbling state, but the days of its glory were long past. Maglor knew from bitter experience that it was only a matter of time until even this was gone, until the last dusts of memory were blown away by the winds of time, but that time had not yet come. It was strangely nostalgic to see something like it again.

But he couldn’t stay here. He’d seen his new companions to the keep; now it was time for him to leave. He just needed to say his goodbyes.

Geralt rode up to the gate and knocked as loudly as he could, Ciri following behind him eagerly. It only took a moment for the huge wooden door to swing open. Out stepped two men, both with the appearance of warriors. Geralt swung down from Roach with a happy shout and then the three of them were hugging and laughing rowdily. 

Jaskier grinned at the sight and stepped forward, dragging Maglor with him by the wrist. Geralt pulled back from the hug, a grin still spread across his face, and gestured at his non-witcher companions. 

“These are Ciri, Jaskier, and Maglor. They’ll be staying with us for the winter. Everyone, these are my brothers, Eskel and Lambert.”

Jaskier and Ciri chirped polite greetings and Maglor did his best to follow suit. He needed to leave, but it wouldn’t do to be impolite, would it?

“Hello,” said the one who Geralt had called Eskel, a powerful-looking man. Most would probably have been intimidated by the large scar across his face, but it only served to make Maglor think of Maedhros. The witcher looked at Jaskier curiously. “So you’re the bard Geralt’s been talking about all these years?”

Jaskier blinked, then gave a triumphant laugh. “Oho, he’s been talking about me?” He turned to Geralt with a sparkling grin. “I knew you liked me! You never fooled me with that whole brooding, emotionless facade, not for one moment. I knew it!”

“Then why are you so thrilled?” teased Geralt with a fond smile. His eyes grew a bit more serious. “I did miss you in the winters. Never admitted it to myself until recently.”

Jaskier pulled him in for a quick hug. “I missed you too, you big oaf.” He turned to Eskel. “Yes, I’m his bard. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He bowed dramatically. Geralt snorted, Eskel smiled, and Lambert rolled his eyes. 

Jaskier cheerfully ignored all of them. “Now, are we going to stand out here in the cold all day, or are we going inside?”

“Wait a moment,” said Lambert. “He’s Geralt’s bard, and she’s Geralt’s princess, I assume, but who is that?” He pointed at Maglor with a suspicious look in his eyes. 

“Oh, this is Maglor,” said Jaskier. “He’s a friend of mine; we met a few months ago and bonded over music. He’s perfectly trustworthy, I assure you.”

“Really?  _ Two _ bards? We can’t just keep taking in more useless mouths to feed, Geralt,” said Lambert. Maglor couldn’t tell if he was irritated or just confused.

Maglor opened his mouth to explain that he was leaving now and would not, in fact, be another mouth to feed, but he was cut off by an angry bard.

“I am not useless, and neither is Maglor! He saved our lives on the way here, I’ll have you know. He risked his own life to finish off a wyvern that was about to eat Geralt’s head off. You should be thanking him, not insulting him!”

Maglor frowned. “It was nothing. We should be thanking you; we would probably all have passed out and died of infection or blood loss or something before we got here if you hadn’t taken charge.” He turned to the witchers and gave them the same glare he used to give trainees who nearly cut their hands off with a sword or half-Elven twins who should very much not have been climbing trees. “Usefulness is determined by more than just strength, you know. Jaskier is extremely useful.”

Lambert raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, you’re not useless. I was just worried about the practicality, is all.”

“You were just being a jerk, as always,” said Geralt fondly. “They’re right, you know; bards are surprisingly useful.”

Jaskier shot a haughty look at Lambert, who rolled his eyes and laughed. 

“Great!” said the bard. “Now that’s been decided, can we please go inside? I know witchers are invincible and all that, but I’m not a witcher and I’m going to freeze if we stand out here any longer.”

Geralt nodded and gestured into the keep, stepping back to take Roach’s reins as his brothers helped unsaddle her. 

Jaskier nodded back. “Come on, Maglor.” He took Maglor’s hand firmly and strode into the witchers' keep, Maglor allowing himself to be dragged along behind him and listening to the laughter of Geralt and his brothers. 

The huge wooden doors swung closed with a final-sounding thump. Eskel and Lambert locked the doors behind them. Only then did Maglor realize that he had not, in fact, left the castle, and was now inside the keep.

Great. Just great.

Maglor kept looking for opportunities to leave. Somehow, he never found them.

Geralt’s brothers —and Vesemir, his father, who had been introduced shortly after they arrived— seemed rather wary of Maglor, not that he blamed them. However, Ciri seemed to enjoy spending time with Maglor, and Jaskier continued to be his cheerful, friendly self. Both of them seemed determined to befriend the other witchers and dragged Maglor along in their schemes. Between the six of them, Maglor rarely found a moment to be alone, and his mind was kept busy with other things for most of several days. 

And then it snowed.

The storm was rough. Dark clouds filled the sky and the wind roared around the fortress’ walls like a wild thing trying to get in. The snow came down in pile after impenetrable pile, and when the clouds finally cleared after three days of darkness, everything as far as the eye could see was buried under several feet of white. The witchers pulled out their supplies, piled up the fire, and settled in for the winter. Nobody was arriving or leaving now.

Maglor was stuck here.

He shouldn’t be relieved by the thought. He was a war criminal. He shouldn’t be happy for the chance to stay with his new friend the bard, nor with the exuberant and mischievous princess, and certainly not with the brooding and yet strangely kind witcher. He wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place; he shouldn’t want to stay.

And yet, somehow, he did.

Well, he didn’t have a choice anymore. He was stuck here until the snow melted. Brooding over it wouldn’t help anybody; he’d just have to make the best of things. Perhaps, if he tried very hard, he could make it through the winter without hurting anybody.

About three days after the snowstorm, Maglor was sitting in a room fairly high up the fortress’ walls, and watching out the window as the snow glittered in the sun. He’d discovered this view not long ago. It was fast becoming one of his favourite places to sit. He hadn’t seen snow like this in a long time — not since his and Maedhros’ forces had fled Himring, probably. It was even more beautiful than he’d remembered.

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps entering the room. He turned and saw Eskel, Geralt’s brother, standing in the doorway. He looked surprised to find someone else in the room. Maglor stood hurriedly.

“Sorry, did you want to sit here? I can leave.”

Eskel seemed to regain his bearings. “No, it’s fine. There’s room for both of us.” He went to sit at the window. After a moment’s hesitation, Maglor sat down next to him. 

“How are the repairs on the north wall going?” Maglor asked. Making conversation was polite, right?

Surprise flitted across Eskel’s face for a moment. “It’s going well. We’re more or less finished now.”

Maglor nodded. “Good. I can’t imagine it would be pleasant to do work like that in this weather.”

“No, but we’ve had worse.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Eskel kept glancing at Maglor in confusion. Maglor didn’t know why, but he was content to let Eskel bring up the subject if he wanted.

“How are you so casual?” the witcher said suddenly.

Maglor blinked. “What?”

“You’ve only known me for a few days. Are you really not bothered by,” —Eskel gestured at his scarred face— “By all this?

“No, I’m not,” said Maglor simply.

“It’s all right if you are. Everyone is. It’s the first thing everyone notices about me. Even Jaskier did a double-take.”

“I’m not bothered,” Maglor repeated.

Eskel looked at him for a long moment. “No, you really aren’t,” he said disbelievingly.

There was a moment of silence.

“Why?”

“Why aren’t I bothered?”

Eskel nodded.

Maglor sighed. “I suppose because it’s not surprising. I’ve seen much worse. It doesn’t phase me anymore.”

Eskel didn’t look satisfied. “Even old soldiers avoid looking at me. There’s more.”

Maglor was silent for a moment, looking off into the distance. “My brother, Maedhros,” he said eventually, “Was captured and tortured, long ago. He lost a hand and gained scars much worse than yours. He remained one of the kindest, wisest, and strongest people I have ever known. We learned to see past the scars.”

They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, Maglor lost in memories while Eskel seemed to digest the information. Maglor had just come to the conclusion that the conversation was over when Eskel spoke again.

“Thank you.”

Maglor looked at him in surprise. “What for?”

“I don’t know. For not being bothered. For telling me.” 

“It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing.”

Maglor looked at him for a moment, then smiled sadly. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while. 

“Eskel?”

“Yes?”

“You’re very welcome.”

Eskel nodded with a smile and Maglor found himself smiling back.

Maybe, just maybe, his presence didn’t always hurt people after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end now: just two more chapters and an epilogue to go. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt and Jaskier talk about feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter where I shamelessly steal lyrics from The Amazing Devil! I'll link to the song in the endnotes. This was a very satisfying chapter to write -- I hope you like it! <3

Geralt's family was definitely suspicious of Jaskier.

Jaskier didn’t blame them. They weren’t used to kindness, especially not from strangers, and had every right to treat it suspiciously when faced with it. Besides, Jaskier knew perfectly well that he could be annoying. Hopefully a helpful annoyance, but still an annoyance. They were being as accepting as he had any right to expect. Eskel was actually more open than Geralt had been at first, and Vesemir was on his way there. And, well, Lambert was just Lambert. 

That didn’t mean it wasn’t exhausting.

Ciri got along with them like wildfire —there had actually been a few things set on fire, but nobody was going to tell Vesemir that— and Geralt of course was welcomed with easy smiles and teasing. Maglor they treated with wary respect, which he seemed to be fine with or at least resigned to. Jaskier seemed to be the only one they didn’t know what to do with, and it was _tiring._ It seemed like they were watching his every move, trying to figure out what his motives were. Geralt had done the same thing at first and Jaskier had been fine with it, but things had changed since then and it was significantly more intense when multiplied by three. Cheering Ciri up was hard enough without having to keep three wary witchers calm at the same time.

But! On the bright side, he now had six very good wells of inspiration. Not long ago, he hadn’t had any. That was progress! And Maglor’s musical advice was doing wonders for his composition. The Elda’s insistence on the value of honesty had turned out to have something in it. Jaskier had written the beginnings of some of his best music in the past month.

Of course, he may have gone a bit overboard on the personal emotion. It was very cathartic to channel his feelings into words and song. It was quite possible that he’d never be able to perform any of this to anyone. 

Still, it was good to have the option! If he ever felt like ripping his heart out in front of an audience and/or confessing his much-deeper-than-he’d-realized feelings for his best friend in the form of a song, he could!

Composing this kind of song was much easier now they were at Kaer Morhen and he could disappear off to an abandoned room when he felt like it. He got a few odd looks from the others (particularly Geralt) but fortunately, nobody had questioned it yet. He was returning from one of these private composing sessions when he heard the voices.

It sounded like at least two witchers, speaking in one of the rooms that opened into the corridor where Jaskier stood. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar, and the voices filtered past it into the corridor. One of Geralt’s brothers was speaking at the moment —probably Eskel, if Jaskier had to guess— and he sounded far more serious than normal. Jaskier paused just within earshot and hoped the witchers were too engrossed in their conversation to notice him. This sounded important; he didn’t want to be left out. He caught the tail end of Eskel’s words.

“...sure about what you’re doing? You know it can’t last. Won’t it just cause more pain for both of you?” 

A voice that sounded like Geralt said something that Jaskier couldn’t make out. Jaskier edged closer.

“The bard will leave eventually,” said what sounded like Vesemir. “What then? Will you be able to go back to the way things were before?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. They were talking about him? What was going on? Had he irritated the other witchers already?

“Jaskier is my friend,” said Geralt. He sounded almost desperate.

“He is a human. You are a witcher. It’s simple,” said what sounded like Lambert. “He can’t handle your life, and you aren’t made for his. Eventually, he’ll realize what he’s got himself into and leave.”

Jaskier grit his teeth and peered around the corner, desperate to catch a glimpse of Geralt’s face. He bit back a cry. The witcher looked downright horrified.

Nobody was allowed to make Geralt feel like that. Ever.

“Excuse me,” he said, striding vehemently into the room, “I couldn’t help overhearing a bit of your conversation just now.”

The witchers spun around as one to look at him. Eskel and Vesemir, at least, looked flustered by having been caught so obviously. Good.

Geralt looked at Jaskier with pain-filled eyes. He opened his mouth as though about to speak, but Jaskier cut him off.

“No! You do not get to do your whole angry, self-loathing, pushing-me-away routine again. I had enough of that back on the mountain, if you recall, and we all remember how that turned out. You lot are going to shut up and listen to me now.”

He surveyed the room with a glare, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did. Good.

He took a deep breath. “Geralt is right. I am his friend, and I am not about to abandon him out of the blue. I tried out being away from him this year —entirely against my will, I might add— and I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

The witchers looked disbelieving. Lambert opened his mouth, but Jaskier cut him off angrily.

“And no, before you ask, I am not going to suddenly realize how difficult a witcher’s life is and go home. I know what the Path is like. I’ve been walking it with Geralt for _twenty-two years._ I’ve patched him up after fights, I’ve been chased out of villages for no reason at all, I've almost died more times than I can count. I know it's dirty, cold, dangerous, uncomfortable and covered in monster guts more often than not. If I was going to be put off by that, I would have left decades ago.

“I understand why you’re wary, I get that you feel suspicious. I’ve seen how you’ve been treated over the years and I don’t blame you for suspecting me, but I’ve put up with more than enough of this from Geralt already and I’d really appreciate it if you could get it into your heads that I’m not going to turn on you. I like you. I’m just trying to help.”

Everyone in the room was just staring at him now. Another man might have been intimidated by the intense gazes of four witchers —and Maglor, who was sitting quietly in the corner— but Jaskier was way past that by now. He looked around the room, making sure everyone had got his message. They all looked various degrees of shocked, bewildered, and respectful. He huffed out a breath.

“So basically, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me. Actually, no, forget that last part. You lot are stuck with me for good.”

He sat down next to Geralt with a plop and glared around the room, daring anyone to challenge his right to sit there. The room was silent. Geralt stared at him with shock, or possibly something akin to awe. 

“Why?” asked Geralt eventually. He sounded genuinely bewildered.

“Why what?” said Jaskier, confused.

“Why do you stay? Why bother with us? I’ve caused you more than enough pain over the years. What did we do to deserve you?”

Jaskier’s heart broke a little. “Oh, Geralt,” he breathed. “There are so many reasons. You all deserve so much better than the world has given you, and I want to do the best I can to help. You need a friend, and I can give you one. And I need you, and not just for inspiring ballads, though you’re great at that too. I—” 

He cut himself off. He was treading in dangerous waters. It was one thing to assure your friend that you weren’t about to abandon them, but it was quite another to tell them you’re in love with them. Even if Geralt was so much more open now, so obviously grateful for Jaskier’s company, so _cuddly,_ it didn’t mean that he was in love with Jaskier or that he would react well to learning Jaskier was in love with him. Even if he had seemed more worried at the prospect of Jaskier leaving him than at the prospect of being stuck with Jaskier forever.

Anyway, he’d already stepped way over the witchers’ lines tonight. He’d do best to play it safe.

“Speaking of ballads, we could do with a little music after all that drama!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms eagerly. It had been a while since he’d performed; this should be fun.

“Ugh, I don’t want to hear another made-up song about half-truths and glitter,” moaned Lambert. “I haven’t stopped hearing _Toss a Coin_ for the last twenty years. For someone who can give such impassioned speeches, your songs have remarkably little to do with reality.”

“Sometimes people don’t want songs about reality. Sometimes people want an escape, want to imagine that they live in a better world than they do.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“I can sing about real feelings!”

“Prove it,” said Lambert with a teasing grin. “Play a single song about Geralt that isn’t full of exaggeration and lies.”

Eskel and Vesemir chuckled, looking at Jaskier in anticipation. Maglor was watching curiously as though wondering what Jaskier would do. Geralt smirked, obviously enjoying this.

Oh, what the heck. When did Jaskier ever play it safe, anyway?

“All right,” he said quietly, “I will. Just let me get my lute.”

He stood and left without waiting for the others’ reactions. He took the time on the way to his room, where he’d left his lute, to calm his nerves. It wasn’t long before he found it, swallowed his nervousness, and walked back into the room. Ciri was there now, too. Oh good. If this went wrong, everyone in the keep would be there to see it. He considered backing out for a moment, but quickly dismissed the option. Geralt deserved honesty, and he wasn’t about to be a chicken in front of everyone. Someone had to set an example for emotional honesty around here, anyway.

“This is a new one,” he said as he settled in and checked that the lute was in tune. “You haven’t heard it, Geralt. Actually no one has heard it. You lot are my first audience! You’ll have to tell me what you think. You should like it, Lambert, it’s… very honest.” If he was doing this, he might as well make it absolutely clear what it was he was doing. He can’t have any witcher self-doubt messing up his reveal, after all. “It is, shall we say, heavily inspired by my relationship with Geralt.”

“Get on with it, bard,” said Lambert with a smirk. 

“All right,” said Jaskier. He looked up from his lute and met Geralt’s eyes. “You want to know what it is that makes me stay?”

Jaskier began the opening notes as Geralt nodded. Here goes nothing. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and sang.

 _It’s what my heart just yearns to say_ _  
_ _In ways that can’t be said_ _  
_ _It’s what my rotting bones will sing_ _  
_ _When the rest of me is dead_

 _It’s what’s engraved upon my heart_ _  
_ _In letters deeply worn_ _  
_ _Today I somehow understand the reason I was born_

He did not grin and dance about the room like he normally would. He kept his voice soft and the lute’s tune steady, and looked at each person in turn as he sang about a him and a her who were really Jaskier and Geralt, interchangeably and subtly but certain. He sang of love and caring, strength and weakness, and when he reached the first chorus he turned and looked Geralt straight in the eye.

 _She’ll turn to him and say, she’ll turn to him and say_ _  
_ _It’s not fair, It’s not fair how much I love you_ _  
_ _It’s not fair, cos you make me laugh when I’m actually really fucking cross at you for something_ _  
_ _And he’ll say_ _  
_ _Oh how, oh how unreasonable_ _  
_ _How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do_ _  
_ _I’ll spend my days so close to you_ _  
_ _Cos if I’m standing here, maybe everyone will think I’m all right._

Geralt’s eyes were wide and he looked as though he was barely daring to breathe. Jaskier didn’t dare try to read into his emotions, letting his fingers carry the bridging melody leading into the next part. He couldn’t afford to worry about his reception now. He looked at Geralt and let the affection he usually dampened flow through him, and leaned into it as he sang the next words.

 _I’ve seen enough, he says, I know exactly what I want_ _  
_ _And it’s this life that we’ve created, inundated with the fated thought of you_ _  
_ _And if you asked me to, if you asked me I would lose it all_ _  
_ _Like petals in a storm, cos darling I was born_ _  
_ _To press my head between your shoulder blades at night when light is fading_

Jaskier looked up at the ceiling, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. He closed his eyes and sang of vulnerability and trust, of longing and love, of weeping and laughing and incongruent that’s-what-she-said jokes. His voice cracked with emotion on the high notes and he let it, opening his heart and baring his feelings for Geralt to see. This was real, this was him, and he offered it to Geralt like a gift. He let himself get wrapped up in the song until it was just him and Geralt and the music. Nothing else mattered anymore. He let his feelings bleed out through his voice and slowly began the final chorus.

 _It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you_ _  
_ _It’s not fair cos you make me ache you bastard_ _  
_ _And she’ll say_ _  
_ _Oh how, oh how unreasonable_ _  
_ _How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do_ _  
_ _I’ll spend my days so close to you cos if I’m stood here_ _  
_ _Then I’m stood here_   
_And I’ll stand here_ _  
I’ll stand here with you._

His fingers brought the melody winding to a gentle close, and it was over. 

He opened his eyes, wiping the tears out of them with the back of his hand. He kept his gaze resolutely on his lute as he set it gently to the side, putting off the inevitable fallout for as long as he could. Soon, though, he could delay no longer. He took a deep breath and looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes.

The witcher was staring at Jaskier shakily. His eyes were bright and his face was streaked with tears.

“Geralt! Are you all right? Is something wrong? Did I say something bad?” 

Geralt shook his head, but Jaskier was too caught up in his anxiety to notice.

“We can ignore everything I just said if you want. Oh gods, I messed this up so badly, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, nothing has to change, we can just go back to the way we were—”

Geralt strode across the few steps separating them and pulled Jaskier into a kiss.

Jaskier gasped against Geralt’s mouth. For a moment he was frozen, brain refusing to process what was happening. Geralt didn’t pull away. 

Then Jaskier’s brain caught up with the present and suddenly Jaskier was kissing Geralt and Geralt was kissing back and their hands were pulling each other closer and tangling in each others’ hair and it was good, it was better than good and Jaskier had no words for the feelings coursing through him but it was absolutely wonderful. 

Far too soon, Geralt had to pull away for breath. Their gazes locked together as they panted. Geralt was looking at him as though afraid he would disappear if he let him out of his sight. His wet eyes glittered a beautiful golden color. This close, Jaskier could see the darker flecks of amber that gave them a richer quality than just pale yellow. He found himself wanting to memorise every detail of those eyes until he could conjure the image of them in the dark at night and feel the warmth that flooded through him at the sight.

Geralt brought a hand up to Jaskier’s cheek. His thumb gently brushed away tears that Jaskier hadn’t realized he had shed.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Geralt hoarsely. “I— that song—” he cut himself off, swallowing wetly, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Jaskier’s. 

“I love you too,” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier laughed wetly and kissed Geralt again.

When they eventually broke apart, both of them were grinning widely. Jaskier looked around the room and laughed. The other three witchers were staring at them with varying degrees of shock, Maglor looked amused and happy, and Ciri was squealing in wide-eyed delight. Jaskier rested his head against Geralt’s chest.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he muttered happily. He could feel Geralt’s rumbling laugh and he smiled into his chest. They stayed like that for a long moment before Jaskier pulled back.

“So what did you think? Real enough for you, Lambert?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Yeah,” said Lambert, seemingly unable to say more. Jaskier grinned.

“I think it was very good,” said Maglor. “The emotion was powerful.”

Geralt nodded at that. “It- It was beautiful,” he said softly.

Jaskier beamed. “Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence.

“All right, your turn!” said Jaskier suddenly, turning to Maglor.

Maglor blinked. “What?”

“You were all telling me to sing an honest song. Maglor should take a turn! It’s only fair after I ripped my heart out in front of everyone. You can do it tomorrow. Sing your most honest song.”

Maglor stared at Jaskier for a long moment.

“All right,” he said eventually. He sounded strangely resigned. “I’ll do it tomorrow evening.”

“Great!” said Jaskier, completely uninterested in untangling Maglor’s Maglor-ness at the moment. “Now, if the rest of you will excuse me, I believe Geralt and I have some things to discuss.”

He pulled Geralt into another kiss, soft and sweet and so, so delightfully _real_ that Jaskier’s heart melted on the spot. Geralt made a rumbling noise and pulled him impossibly closer, and Jaskier moaned.

“Ugh, get a room!” said Lambert loudly. 

Geralt his head away with a chuckle, arms still wrapped around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier pouted and tried to pull him closer, making Geralt laugh again.

“I think,” said Geralt, his voice a low rumble in his chest, “That it would be wise to find somewhere more private for our discussion.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. “Oh _yes,_ I am entirely on board with this plan.” 

With that, Geralt and Jaskier disappeared into Geralt’s room and did not emerge until well after noon the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is [Fair](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mBVP9Z_sac&ab_channel=TheAmazingDevil-Topic) by The Amazing Devil, which is maybe the most beautiful love song I know of. I highly recommend it! (And everything else by that band, tbh.)
> 
> Geralt and Jaskier finally worked out all their nonsense! Don't worry, Maglor's turn is coming soon ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my self-indulgent romantic fluff as much as I did!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor sings his song and gets a hug.

It had to happen eventually.

Maglor couldn’t keep up this charade forever. Eventually, he had to tell these people who were fast becoming his friends —and wasn’t  _ that  _ a strange thought— what he really was. What he’d done.

He hadn’t exactly been hiding it. He’d answered all their questions, even sang of Beleriand on more than one occasion. His role in the history simply… hadn’t come up before. 

He was no fool, though. He knew that he’d been delaying the inevitable. He hadn’t at first, but lately he’d taken to changing the subject sooner than strictly necessary when the subject of his past came up. He’d even broken his promise to himself and stayed after they arrived at the keep. This had to stop.

And here was the perfect opportunity to reveal the truth. Jaskier had challenged him to sing his most honest song, and he would comply. Anything but the Noldolantë would not truly fill the criteria of the challenge. Besides, Jaskier had revealed vulnerable truths about himself in his surprisingly spectacular performance. It was only fair for Maglor to do the same.

Which meant, of course, that he would have to leave.

No one in their right mind would willingly keep company with him once they knew his past. He didn’t think they would kill him —they were far too kind for that, even the witchers— but he would certainly not be allowed to stay. He should be fine with this. It was what he deserved, after all. He had no right to cease his penance on the shore.

His presence could not be helpful to the others, no matter what he hoped. He was not a good person. He had to stop indulging himself in unearned pleasures before he hurt someone.

So he was going to sing the Noldolantë tonight, and expose his true nature to everyone in the keep. 

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

At breakfast that morning —which was a quieter affair than usual, due to the fact that Jaskier was still closeted in his room with Geralt— he had asked, without much hope, whether there happened to be a harp in the vicinity. He hadn’t expected anything to come of it, given that this was a keep full of witchers, but to his great surprise, Vesemir had answered in the affirmative. After the meal was over he’d been led to a remote, derelict, and dust-covered room high up in the castle’s north corner. In its center stood an old and dust-covered but magnificent old harp.

If anyone noticed him tearing up at the sight, they were kind enough not to mention it.

He’d spent the rest of the evening holed up in the room, tenderly repairing the old instrument and acquainting himself with how it sang. It was surprisingly high-quality —not quite up to Noldorin standards, but close enough for his purposes— and not terribly different from the harps he remembered. He ran over the instrumental for the Noldolantë as best he could without playing the whole thing, adjusting elements of his performance to best fit the medium at hand. Each time he sang it was different, so there was only so much he could do to prepare, but he did his best. 

Before he knew it the time had come for dinner, which would be followed by his song. Eskel and Lambert arrived to help him move the harp down to the dining hall. Dinner passed in a flurry of jokes and laughing teases from the others, mostly to do with the new couple, as the other Witchers had taken to calling Geralt and Jaskier. Maglor ignored it for the most part, too caught up in his nerves to keep track of the banter. He kicked himself internally. He shouldn’t be so nervous about this. 

All too soon, the time had come, and Maglor was ushered to where the harp was set, above the table. He swallowed his nerves and plucked a few notes, testing how the acoustics of the room reacted to the sound. It echoed nicely against the stone walls, but not so much as to be overwhelming. Good. He could use that.

“I’ll begin in a few moments,” he announced when he felt ready. 

Ciri clapped her hands in excitement. “Your songs are the best!

Jaskier mimed a look of deep hurt, and Ciri laughed.

“I’m afraid you might not like this one,” said Maglor. “It’s quite sad.”

Ciri shook her head. “I’m sure I’ll like it,” she said determinedly.

Maglor grimaced but said nothing. He hadn’t been sure about letting Ciri hear this in the first place, but she would not be dissuaded. Maglor hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed or disturbed by the result.

“This is what I consider to be my best song,” he said as he double-checked the tuning on the harp. “It’s the story of my family and my people. It’s very long and translating it would take years, if it can be done at all, so you may not understand all the words. I think you should be able to get the idea, though. And you did ask for my most honest song.”

“Translating it? From Quenya?” asked Jaskier. He said the word slowly, but his pronunciation was surprisingly good.

Maglor nodded. “It’s a combination of Quenya and Sindarin, for the most part. The languages are rather ingrained into the structure and the wording is very precise. If I tried to translate it like the others, it would lose a lot of its effect.”

“The others?” asked Jaskier, intrigued. 

Maglor gave him an amused look. “Did you think I’ve been composing ballads about history in your tongue for all these years? I’ve only known it for a few months now. Most of what I sang to you I was translating as I went.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t have guessed it was a translation,” he said in some awe. “You are very good.”

Maglor still looked amused. “Well, I should hope so, given everything.”

Jaskier gave him a confused look, and Maglor’s smile faded.

“You shall see when I’m done.”

For a moment everyone was silent. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the wind whistled outside the walls. Maglor took a few deep breaths, preparing himself for what was to come.

And then he began.

He started slow, just a soft melody from the harp ringing out in the silent room. It was peaceful and quiet and beautiful, and as he gradually increased its complexity he followed the growing beauty, the music swirling through the room like the light of the Two Trees mixing and mingling in days long forgotten by lore. The song grew ever stronger and more complex until it seemed to fill the air with light, and then he began to sing.

It was beautiful too, at first. The Quenya danced off his tongue in a lilting counter-melody to the tune of the harp strings, and they danced together as things of beauty, as days of wonder in the youth of the world before the rising of the sun or the stirring of evil. 

But then it began to change. 

Slowly, subtly, his voice grew darker. It was unnoticeable at first, but soon it grew into an uneasy contrast to the beauty of the harp, darkness where there should only have been light. He sang of discord, of argument and discontent, gradual building of rivalries as Morgoth did his work, and slowly even the golden light of the harp was tainted with darkness. The song was discordant now, melodies that never quite fit together disturbing each other in their uneasy dance. Darkness and light mixed for the first time, and still the darkness grew.

Swords were forged in secret fires, glittering in the red light of underground smithies. The conflicts grew, and then the swords were glittering in the light of the trees and people were shouting and rifts were growing, and still the darkness increased. The harp’s melody grew frantic, trying in vain to counter the growing darkness but only serving to lose its own beauty in desperation. Maglor’s voice and the harp affected each other, reflecting and absorbing each others’ darkness until both were rising to a frantic crescendo of pain and fear. The darkness grew and grew, and then the harp abruptly stopped and the light of the Trees was out.

Maglor’s voice continued alone in the echoing darkness, grief and anger filling his words as tragedies unheard-of and fear unimagined destroyed the innocence that had remained until then. The conflict grew instead of lessening in the absence of the harp, and then his voice reached a haunting fever-pitch as oaths were sworn and swords were drawn and the blood of the innocents stained the water red. He let the agony fill his voice as he relived the terror and anger that had filled the air, the unspeakable crimes that forever doomed them all. Boats were stolen, promises were broken, and Doom was placed upon them.

And then the harp came back. It was not the beautiful melody from before, but a twisted, broken version of it that spoke of destruction and death and doom. It was the prophecy of the Valar, the noose already wrapped around their necks, but Maglor sang on. He sang of boats and of burning, of the dark and grinding ice, of bad decisions and worse results and of families torn apart in the flames and the glaciers. But he did not waver, determination filling his voice even as the darkness grew and fathers fell in fiery ruin and brothers were tormented by the flame. Hosts were reunited, hopeless rescues were successful, and the Sun and Moon rose over a new horizon. Slowly, achingly, he clawed his way out of the darkness, and for a time there was hope.

Kingdoms were built, children were born, allies were found in long-sundered kin and in newly-awakened strangers. The days brightened, and evil was kept at bay for a time behind the ever-watchful besieging warriors. But still, under all, there lingered an undercurrent of uneasiness, a feeling that this happiness was not to last. But it was easily ignored, passed over in favor of a rising hope that all might not be in vain.

Then, suddenly, the siege was broken. Fire spilled over the land and burned everything in its path. Cities blazed and lives were lost and terror filled the air as kings died in hopeless desperation. What had been built began to crumble, and even the most desperate attempts did nothing but prolong the retreat.

Then flared was a ray of hope, sudden and small but tantalizingly bright. A jewel was stolen, a battle was won, and even the gods could not ignore its beauty. Suddenly it seemed that all was not lost, and the chance was grasped with desperate strength. Armies were mustered, plans were made, and victory was almost in their reach. The music spiralled in eager, desperate hope as the fateful day approached and their union seemed stronger than ever.

And then it collapsed in fiery ruin.

In the space of days, their every hope was dashed. Treachery and hastiness and the forces of the Enemy brought every last plan crashing to the ground, and they could barely even retreat through the rubble. The bodies of the slain lay in rotting heaps towering towards the sky, and tears unnumbered ran like rivers to the sea. 

Their ruin was only a matter of time, now, no matter how hard they tried to convince themselves otherwise. Every desperate attempt at redemption dragged them further into the dark graves they were digging for themselves. Innocents were slain by foe and by friend. The last safe havens were sacked and burned. Winter fell in bitter dark and cold, and now blood ran like rivers to the sea. People who had once been great were nothing but robbers and murderers, ransacking the havens of innocents in desperate, hopeless fury. 

In the distance, armies arrived, their armour shining in the sun, but it was too late. The darkness had shrouded those who were once noble, and no hope could save them now. Some managed to escape the shadow of doom, by force or by choice, but for others, it was far, far too late.

Maglor made no attempt to stop the tears that were now flowing freely, letting them color his voice until it was little more than a wailing cry of grief and agony. Everything around him finally collapsed, and he was left alone in guilt and pain and tears staring at the wreckage of a life that should never have been. He alone stood on the edge of disaster and was left to watch, silent and alone, as, agonizingly slowly, it crumbled into dust and the last memories of the past were swept away by the winds of time. The music slowly faded away, and then all that was left was a tear-stained person in a room that seemed empty with the lack of the song.

Maglor closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. 

Any moment now, he would be told to leave. He’d told the truth, and now he had to face the consequences of his actions. He would get what he deserved. This was good. This was necessary.

He just wished they would be quick about it. 

The silence stretched on for what felt like hours. Seconds turned into minutes, and still it persisted. Eventually, Maglor could bear it no longer. He opened his eyes.

The Witchers were staring at him in open shock, eyes wide and suspiciously wet. Jaskier’s face was streaked with tears, and Ciri’s face was buried in his chest. Maglor’s heart clenched in horror. Maglor had done this, made Jaskier look sad and tearful. Jaskier should never look like that. Maglor was a monster. He had never deserved them.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have kept this from you. I’ll leave now. You don’t have to say anything. I understand if you don’t want to speak with me.” He bowed his head and stood to leave.

Jaskier made a strangled noise, passed Ciri to Geralt, and lunged forward to catch Maglor’s wrist.

“No,” he said, “I’m just processing. Don’t go.”

Maglor blinked. Perhaps Jaskier wanted to tell him just how much he hated him before Maglor left? He deserved the chance to, if he wanted. Maglor sat back down.

Jaskier took a few shaky breaths, then looked up and met Maglor’s eyes.

“That was real,” he breathed. “You really lived all that.”

It wasn’t a question. Maglor nodded anyway. 

“I’m sorry. I should have told you before. You deserved to know what a monster I am.”

Jaskier made a wounded noise, stepped forward, and pulled Maglor into a hug.

_ What? _

Maglor froze. He stared down at the bard in utter bewilderment. What was going on? Why would Jaskier _hug_ _him_ after Maglor told him that he’d been lied to and that Maglor was a monster? It made no sense.

“We knew there was something in your past, you idiot,” said Jaskier, not pulling away. “We’re not stupid. We just figured that, whatever it was, it’s over and done with and what really matters is the kindness you’ve shown to us now. We didn’t think it was something quite this big, but that doesn’t change the logic. Besides, we knew you’d bring it up eventually.”

Maglor stared at him, far too confused to respond.

“I was just crying because it’s a very moving story. You didn’t hurt me. You don’t need to leave.”

“But why would you want me to stay?” Maglor managed, baffled.

Jaskier looked up at him with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I? What does this change?”

Maglor looked at him like he was crazy. “I’m a murderer!”

“You were a murderer, several thousand years ago. You’ve spent the last really-long-time trying to make up for it, correct?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t fix it! Nothing does.”

“No, it doesn’t fix it. But are you going to hurt me? Or any of us?”

Maglor was horrified. “No, of course not!”

“Then why should we send you away?”

Maglor stared at him. “What good could I possibly do here?” he asked slowly, confused.

“Well, given that you’ve already saved my life at least twice, helped Ciri through her nightmares, killed a monster, given me excellent music advice without which I wouldn’t have been able to write that song and get Geralt to kiss me, and been overall very helpful to my life for the last few months, I’d say that’s a pretty dumb question.”

Maglor stared at Jaskier some more. He wasn’t sure he understood what was going on.

“But what if I hurt someone again?” he asked faintly.

“I doubt even you could hold your own against four Witchers simultaneously. Besides, given your reaction to the thought just now, I’m not too worried about you trying to hurt anyone.”

Maglor frowned, scrambling for a scrap of logic to cling to. “I can’t forget what I’ve done,” he said eventually. “I can’t move on. I’m the last person on these shores who remembers. I have to stay where I was.”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” said Jaskier firmly. “I’m asking you to stay. There’s a difference. You can do more good here, where there are people you can help. Penance is better when it actually does someone good. And you can tell us your memories, help us learn to remember. We can help you keep the memories going. You don’t need to be alone anymore.”

To Maglor’s great surprise, Geralt nodded.

“You helped us a lot. You don’t need to leave,” he muttered. 

“Don’t leave!” said Ciri, recovering from the emotions enough to jump up and wrap Maglor’s legs in a shaky hug. Maglor instinctually wrapped his arms around her in return, though his brain was still struggling to process this turn of events. 

Jaskier grinned. “See? We don’t want you to leave. And for what it’s worth, I would love to learn more about your story. History deserves to be remembered.”

Maglor stared around them, bewildered. He still felt wrung out from the emotional marathon that was playing the Noldolantë, and this was so different from what he had expected that he hardly knew what to think. He resorted to stroking Ciri’s hair, the action comforting to both of them. Ciri hugged him tighter.

“Please stay,” she said, voice shaking a little.

Maglor was abruptly reminded of the last person he’d heard those words from, a half-elf who was little more than a boy and had already lost far too much begging him not to leave as well. Maglor had turned away, then, and it was a mistake that he still regretted making. 

Jaskier looked at him with hopeful, vulnerable eyes. Ciri looked up at him pleadingly. Even the Witchers seemed concerned, Geralt in particular.

He couldn’t abandon them.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll stay.”

And for the first time in many, many years, Maglor felt hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue to go! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading along -- I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who’s left a comment on this story, and especially to AT, whose wonderful comments never fail to make my day. It truly means so much to see all your reactions. I love you guys! <3<3<3
> 
> Thanks to Magicat for beta-ing this chapter and for helping to name Jaskier’s horse :D

Jaskier closed his eyes and let the smell of damp earth and the sound of the early songbirds wash over him. The snow was finally thawing, and the world around the keep was awakening from slumber. The sun shone brighter than it had for months. It was time for them to set out.

Jaskier heard a chuckle and arms wrapped around him from behind, the sounds of preparation temporarily halted. He laughed and opened his eyes, twisting his neck to plant a kiss on Geralt's cheek. Geralt smiled and Jaskier smiled back. Geralt had become so much more open since the day their feelings had been revealed, and Jaskier was absolutely loving this new carefree side of his Witcher. The moment was interrupted when Roach snorted from beside them, tugging her head impatiently against the reigns Geralt still held. Jaskier again laughed and twisted out of the Witcher's arms, turning to help with the preparations.

They were going in search of Yennefer. Ciri needed more magical training than any of them were able to give her, and Yen seemed like the most straightforward person to turn to. Not so long ago, Jaskier would have recoiled at the very thought of deliberately seeking out Yennefer, but things had changed for the better. Geralt was his now, and Yennefer could not take him away. Anything else, Jaskier would be more than happy to put up with for Ciri's sake.

It had been decided, after much debate and disagreement over the course of the winter, that Jaskier, Geralt, and Maglor would be the ones to undertake the search. Despite their history, Geralt seemed to be the person Yen was most likely to trust, or at least listen to before turning them all into toads or something. Jaskier, of course, was wonderful and talented and would be in charge of earning them places to stay and/or charming their way out of sticky situations with his incredible charisma. Maglor was coming because Vesemir had insisted that someone with sense was needed on the journey, and in case they needed someone to sneak into a village unnoticed. Jaskier thought it said a lot about his new family —and that was what they were, no matter how hesitant some might be to say it— that Maglor was possibly the least conspicuous of them all. He could pass as human if he tried, and he wasn't a loud, talented, and world-famous bard. 

The Elda in question was currently leading his horse, which had been acquired by Eskel about a week before, towards where Jaskier stood with their luggage. He had proved to be a surprisingly impressive rider and had quickly bonded with the mare, whom he christened Windfoot. He hadn't made it more than a few more steps, though, before Ciri came rushing out the front door and enveloped him in a hug. Maglor picked her up with a smile and twirled her through the air, making her laugh despite herself.

Ciri and Vesemir were to remain in the keep. Nobody had wanted to risk taking the princess on a journey across the continent; the danger was too great, even for such a powerful young girl. Ciri hadn't been happy at the decision but had eventually acknowledged that it was for the best. Vesemir had volunteered to stay behind with her. Jaskier thought he was a lot more excited than he let on at the prospect of having a pupil again. He and Ciri had grown very close over the winter. 

Eskel and Lambert were also going to stay for at least a few more weeks, and possibly longer. Nobody was eager to leave Ciri, and Ciri wasn't eager to let anyone leave, so Jaskier doubted that Geralt’s brothers would set out before at least a month or so had passed. Everyone judged it to be better the safer and more well-protected their princess was from all harm.

"Goodbye, Grandpa," said Ciri, when Maglor finally put her down. Maglor grinned at hearing the name, apparently still not over the wonder.

"Goodbye, Tárinkë," he said, using his own nickname for her. He'd said it meant "Little Queen," more or less. Ciri loved it.

"Grandpa" was the newest of Maglor's many names, one he shared with Vesemir. Jaskier wasn't sure which of the two had been more surprised when she first started referring to them with the name. There had been no explanation or warning beforehand, and they had both looked hilariously bewildered and overjoyed. It had been even better than when Geralt's brothers first became "Uncle Lambert" and "Uncle Eskel;" the moment was only bested by the one where Geralt and Jaskier became "Papa" and "Dad." Jaskier's heart still swelled with pride at the thought, and Geralt had looked just about ready to explode.

Ciri truly was a gift.

Said gift was very reluctant to let them leave and insisted on helping them pack up the horses. Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir came out to help as well. Before long, everything was packed and ready to go. After many heartfelt goodbyes and promises to return safely and soon Jaskier was finally allowed to mount his new horse, which he’d named Allegro. Those who were not about to set off returned inside, goodbyes said and done. Even after this winter, the Witchers were not nearly sentimental enough to stick around until the travelers were out of sight. It only made Jaskier more fond of them.

Well, they couldn't sit here dawdling forever. Jaskier turned to look at the others.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," said Maglor. Geralt nodded.

They set off down the mountain. Jaskier couldn't help but think of all the other times he and Geralt had set out on a journey like this. Just a year ago, Jaskier would never have dreamed of being this lucky. So much had changed since then that it was sometimes hard to comprehend that this was real. He had Geralt, openly loving him and being loved in return. He had Ciri to laugh with and cherish. He had Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir, a more caring and supportive group than his family had ever been. He had Maglor to listen to his musical musings and give him advice and tell him tales of long ago. It was wonderful, and Jaskier couldn't have wished for anything better.

They traveled in silence for about ten minutes, before Jaskier got bored and pulled his lute out of its case. He had a song prepared for the occasion, after all. It wouldn't do to let it go to waste. With a flourish of the strings, he began.

 _When two humble bards_ _  
__Graced a ride along_  
 _With Geralt of Rivia_ _  
Along came this song_

Maglor laughed, Geralt groaned, and Jaskier grinned. The journey was off to an excellent start. 

After all, what more could a bard want than a lute, a muse-turned-friend-turned-lover, and a strange beach cryptid who was becoming something of an older brother?

Perhaps they had all turned out to be just what the others had needed.

Jaskier smiled and raised his voice in song.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! I might continue this ‘verse someday, but no promises — for now, this is the end! 
> 
> I have lots of ideas for other stories in both fandoms, so there should be more from me coming soon in one form or another. I’m on [tumblr](https://wren-of-the-woods.tumblr.com/) if you want to come and say hi or see what I’m up to, and you can subscribe to me here if you just want to see my writing!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s read this far! It's been a wonderful experience sharing this with you all, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. 
> 
> Wishing you all the best,  
> \- Wren

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you feel so inclined, comments/kudos make me very happy :)


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